LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DrE( 


bMIN   UttltiU  I 


_     0 


BALLADS,   LYRICS,  AND  IlYMiNS. 


A  L  I  C  E  N  C  A  R  Y 


POPULAR   EDITION. 


NEW   YORK: 

PUBLISHED    T,Y    IIURD   AND    HOUGHTON. 
:  llfbrr^itfr  ^Drr^. 
1872. 


Rn'.  r:d  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  ye:it  1305.  by 

ALICE  CARY, 
iu  t'je  Clerk's  O.flce  of  the  District  Court  lor  the  Southern  District  of  N.-w  Yorl; 


RIVERSIDK.    CAMUHilniE: 
STEREOTYPED     AND     P  R  I  X  T  K  !) 
M      O.    no:  <:i!TON    AXI>    COMIMVl 


O  EVER  true  and  comfortable  mate, 

For  whom  my  love  outwore  the  fleeting  red 
Of  my  young  cheeks,  nor  did  one  jot  abate, 

I  pray  thee  now,  as  by  a  dying  bed, 
Wait  yet  a  little  longer !     Hear  me  tell 

How  much  my  will  transcends  my  feeble  powers 

As  one  with  blind  eyes  feeling  out  in  flowers 
Their  tender  hues,  or,  with  no  skill  to  spell 

His  poor,  poor  name,  but  only  makes  his  mark. 

And  guesses  at  the  sunshine  in  the  dark, 
So  I  have  been.     A  sense  of  things  divine 

Lying  broad  above  the  little  things  I  knew, 
The  while  I  made  my  poems  for  a  sign 

Of  the   crreat  melodies  I  felt  were  true. 


IV  APOLOGY. 

Pray  tliee  accept  my  sad  apology, 

Sweet  master,  mending,  as  we  go  along, 
My  homely  fortunes  with  a  thread  of  song, 

That  all  my  years  harmoniously  may  run  ; 
Less  by  the  tasks  accomplished  judging  me, 

Than  by  the  better  things  I  would  have  done. 
I  would  not  lose  thy  gracious  company 

Out  of  my  house  and  heart  for  all  the  good 

Besides,  that  ever  comes  to  womanhood,  — 
And  this  is  much :  I  know  what  I  resign, 
But  at  that  great  price  I  would  have  thee  mir. 


CONTENTS. 


BALLADS.  Psigs 

THE  YOUNG  SOLDIER      .           .           .           .            .            .            .  3 

"•  0  WINDS!  YE  ARE  TOO  ROUGH,  Too  HOUGH!"              ...  8 

RUTH  AND  I                                              ....  9 

HAGKN  WAI.DEK         ...                        .  12 

"AMONG  THE  PITFALLS  IN  OUR  WAY"             ....  14 

OUR  SCHOOLMASTKK              .......  15 

"THE  BEST  MAN  SHOULD  NEYKK  PASS  I'.Y  "    ....  18 

THE  GUAY  SWAN       .  .  .  .  ...  .  .19 

THE  WASHERWOMAN       .            .           .            .            .            .            .  22 

GROWING  RICH           ........  25 

"Too   MUCH    JOY    IS   SORROWFUL,"  .....  20 

SANDY  MACLEOD        ........        27 

THE  Piert'RE-BooK         .  .  m.  .  .  .  29 

"  HE  sroiLs  HIS  HOUSE  AND  THROWS  HIS  PAINS  AWAY  "          .  .31 

A  WALK  THROUGH  THE  SNOW  .....  32 

"THE  GLANCE  THAT  DOTH  MY  NKIG11  1!O|;  UoUHT"        .  .  .34 

THE  WATER-BEAREK      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  '  35 

THE  BEST  JUDGMENT  .......        43 

HUGH  THORNDYKE  .......  4C 

"STILL  FROM  THE  UNSATISFYING  QUEST"  .  .  .  .48 

FAITHLESS  ........  49 

"DO  NOT  LOOK  FOR  WRONG  AND  EVIL"  —  .  .  .  .51 

MY  FADED  SHAWL          .......  52 

CARE     ..........        60 

OLD  CHUMS  ........  Gl 

"APART  FROM.  THE  WOES  THAT  ARE  DEAD  AND  GONE,"  .  .        63 

THE  SHOEMAKER  .......  64 

To  THE  WIND  ........        66 

"WHAT  COMFORT,  WHEN  WITH  CLOUDS  OK  WOE"    ...  68 

LITTLE  CYRUS  ...  69 


vi  CONTENT  \ 

IMjre 
"Ocn  GOD  is  LOVE,  AND  THAT  WHICH  WE  MISCALL"         .  .  73 

MORNING  .........          74 

THE  Si'MMEK  STORM       .......  77 

IF  AND  IP       .........        79 

"WE  AJ!K  THE  MARINERS,  AND  C.OI)  THE  SKA  ...  84 

AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE  ......        8.~> 

FIFTEEN  AND  FIFTY         .......  DO 

JK.N.NV  DUNLKATII       ........        97 

TRICKSEY'R  KINO  .......  103 

CRAZY  CHRISTOPHER  .  .  .  .  .  .  .110 

THE  FERUY  OF  GALLAWAY       ......  11G 

REVOLUTIONARY  STORY        .  .  .  .  .  .  .119 

"JUST  IIKRE  ANI>  THKRK  WITH  SOME  POOR  LITTLE  RAY"  .  123 

"HOPE  IN  OUR  IIF.  \I!TS  DOTH  ONLY  STAY"          .  .  .       124 


THOUGHTS  AND  THEORIES. 

THANKSGIVING      ........  127 

THE  liiMHAL  VEIL     ........  14-') 

THE  SPECIAL  DARLING               ......  145 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  WEST     .            .            .        •    .           .           .            .  147 

ON  SEEING  A  DROWNING  MOTH           .....  140 

GOOD  AND  EVIL        ........  152 

STROLLER'S  SONG              .           .           .           .           .           .            .  154 

A  LESSON         .......  .158 

ON  SEEING  A  WILD  BIRD          .           .           .           .           .            .  158 

RICH,  THOUGH  POOR              .......  100 

SIXTEEN      .         '  .            .            .            .            .            .            .            .  102 

PRAYER  FOR  LIGHT              .                                   ....  104 

THE  UNCUT  LEAF            .......  100 

THE  MIGHT  OF  TRUTH         .......  1G8 

COUNSEL     ...                       .                                   .           .  170 

THE  LITTLE  BLACKSMITH     .......  17:2 

Two  TRAVELLERS            .           .            .           .           .           .            .  174 

THE  BLIND  TRAVELLER        .......  177 

THE  BLACKBIRD  .        -   .            .            .            .            .            .            .  179 

MY  GOOD  ANGEL       ........  181 

MORE  LIFE            ........  183 

CONTRADICTORY  185 


CONTENTS. 


THIS  is  ALL 

Page 
187 

IN  VAIN           .... 

189 

BEST,  TO  THE  BEST 

191 

THORNS             .... 

.      193 

OLD  ADAM 

195 

THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER  . 

197 

A  PRAYER 

199 

ALONE              .... 

201 

SOMETIMES 

20-2 

THE  SEA-SIDE  CAVE 

204 

JANUARY     .... 

200 

THE  MEASURE  OF  TIME 

.      209 

IDLE  FEARS 

211 

213 

To  A  STAGNANT  RIVER 

235 

COUNSEL          .... 

217 

LATENT  LIKE 

219 

How  AND  WHERE      .            .            . 

.      221 

THE  FELLED  TREE 

22o 

A  DREAM         .... 

226 

WORK         .... 

227 

COMFORT          .... 

.m                                                    229 

FAITH  AND  WORKS 

.     "     .            .            .            .            230 

THE  RUSTIC  PAINTER 

232 

ONE  OF  MANY 

234 

THE  SHADOW 

237 

THE  UNWISE  CHOICE 

'    .            .            239 

SIGNS  OK  GRA^K 

-:4i 

PROVIDENCE 

243 

THE  LIVING  PRESENT 

.244 

ONE  DUST 

246 

THE  WEAVER'S  DREAM 

.248 

NOT  Now 

250 

CRA<;S               .... 

.252 

MAN             .... 

254 

To  SOLITUDE 

256 

THE  LAW  OF  LIBERTY    . 

258 

MY  CREED      .... 

200 

OPEN  SECRETS 

202 

vui  CONTEXTS. 

PWK 
THE  SADDEST  SIGHT  .  .  .  .  .  .  2>,l 

THE  BRIDAL  HOUR          .......  266 

IDLE     ..........      267 


HYMNS. 

THE  SUKE  WITNESS         .......  271 

LOVE  is  LIKE  ........  273 

"THY  WOUKS,  O  LORD,  INTERPRET  THEE,"  .  .  -274 

TIME     ..........  275 

CONSOLATION         .......  276 

SUPPLICATION  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  277 

"WHY  SHOULD  OCR  SPIRITS  HE  OPPRKST"      ....  278 

WHITHER        .........  27il 

SURE  ANCHOR       .  .  "  .  .  .  .  .  2Su 

KEMKMI-.KR      .........  28J 

LYRIC      ..........  284 

SUNDAY  Moirxixc;      ........  285 

IN  THE  DARK        .  .  .  .  .  .  ...  287 

PARTING  SONG  ........  2Sy 

MOURN  NOT  ........  291 

TIIK  HEAVEN  THAT'S  lli.ur:  .....  .  20-3 

THE  STREAM  OK  LIFE     .......  2!>5 

DEAD  AND  ALIVE      .......  .  2% 

INVOCATION  ........  2U8 

LIFE  OP  LIFE  .......  .  3ou 

MERCIES     ........  .  302 

PLEASURE  AND  I'AI.N  .......  3(W 

MYSTERIES  ........  305 

LYRIC  ......  f  ...  307 

TRUST         .  ......  308 

ALL  IN  ALL    .........  310 

THE  PURE  IN  HEART      .......  312 

UNSATISFIED   .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  314 

MORE  LIFE  ........  316 

LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS  .......  318 

SUBSTANCE  ........  320 

LIFE'S  MYSTERY         ........  322 

FOR  SELF-HELP    .  324 


CONTENTS.  ix 

Page 

DYING  HYMN              ........  32G 

EXTREMITIES          .        ,  .            .            .            .            .            .            .  327 

HEUE  AND  THEHE      ........  329 

THE  DA\VN  OF  PEACE     .......  330 

OCCASIONAL    .                       ....  3;j2 


PORTRAIT,  ox  STEEL,  BY  RITCHIE 

TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG HOCHSTEIX iii 

THE  YOUNG  SOLDIER HKRRICK 3 

THE  GRAY   SWAN FKXX 19 

THE  WATER-BEARER BKI.LOWS 35 

MY  FADED  SHAWL HILLOX 52 

LITTLE  CYRUS CAREY 69 

AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE  GRANYILI.K  PERKINS 85 

CRAZY  CHRISTOPHER HOCIISTEIX 110 

THANKSGIVING :Tln.i.ox 127 

ON   SEEING   A   DROWNING  MOTH. . . .  Ft:xx 14! 

THE  LITTLE  BLACKSMITH J.  G.  BROWN 171 

THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER WM.  HART 19' 

THE   FELLED   TREE "          " 223 

THE  WEAVER'S  DREAM LAUXT  THOMPSON 24L 

THE  SURE  WITNESS..  .  .HOCIISTEIN  . .  ..  271 


THE  YOUNG  SOLDIER. 


Nil)  the  house  ran  Lettice, 

With  hair  so  long  and  so  bright, 
Crying,     "  Mother !      Johnny     has 

»%  'listed ! 
He  has  'listed  into  the  fight!" 

I."  Don't  talk  so  wild,  little  Lettice  !  " 
And  she  smoothed   her    darling's 

brow, 
"  'T  is    true  !   you  '11   see  —  as  true 

can  be  — 
He  told  me  so  just  now  I  " 


BALLADS. 

"Ah,  that's  a  likely  story! 

Why,  darling,  don't  you  see, 
If  Johnny  had  'listed  into  the  war 

He  would  tell  your  father  and  me  I  " 

"  But  he  is  going  to  go,  mother, 

Whether  it 's  right  or  wrong ; 
He  is  thinking  of  it  all  the  while, 

And  he  won't  be  with  us  long." 

" "  Our  Johnny  going  to  go  to  the  war !  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  and  the  time  is  near ; 
He  said,  when  the  corn  was  once  in  the  ground, 
We  could  n't  keep  him  here  !  " 

"  Hush,  child !  your  brother  Johnny 

Meant  to  give  you  a  fright." 
"  Mother,  he  Ml  go,  —  I  tell  you  I  know 

He  's  'listed  into  the  fight ! 

"  Plucking  a  rose  from  the  bush,  he  said, 

Before  its  leaves  were  black 
He  'd  have  a  soldier's  cap  on  his  head, 

And  a  knapsack  on  his  back !  " 

t'A  dream  !  a  dream !  little  Lettice, 

A  wild  dream  of  the  night ; 
Go  find  and  fetch  your  brother  in, 

And  he  will  set  us  ri<iht." 


BALLADS. 

So  out  of  the  house  ran  Lettice, 

Calling  near  and  far, — 
"  Johnny,  tell  me,  and  tell  me  true, 

Are  you  going  to  go  to  the  war  ? " 

At  last  she  came  and  found  him 

In  the  dusty  cattle-close, 
Whistling  Hail  Columbia, 

And  beating  time  with  his  rose. 

The  rose  he  broke  from  the  bush,  when  he  said, 

Before  its  leaves  were  black 
He  'd  have  a  soldier's  cap  on  his  head, 

And  a  knapsack  on  his  back. 

Then  all  in  gay  mock-anger, 

He  plucked  her  by  the  sleeve, 
Saying,  "  Dear  little,  sweet  little  rebel, 

I  am  going,  by  your  leave !  " 

"  O  Johnny  !  Johnny  !  ''*  low  he  stooped, 

And  kissed  her  wet  cheeks  dry, 
And  took  her  golden  head  in  his  hands, 

And  told  her  he  would  not  die. 

"But,  Letty,  if  anything  happen  — 

There  won't  I  and  he  spoke  more  low  — 

But  if  anything  should,  you  must  be  twice  as  good 
As  you  are,  to  mother,  you  know! 


0  BALLADS. 

"Not  but  that  you  are  good,  Letty, 

As  good  as  you  can  be  ; 
But  then  you  know  it  might  be  so, 

You  'd  have  to  be  good  for  me !  " 

So  straight  to  the  house  they  went,  his  cheeks 

Flushing  under  his  brim  ; 
And  his  two  broad-shouldered  oxen 

Turned  their  great  eyes  after  him. 

That  night  in  the  good  old  farmstead 

Was  many  a  sob  of  pain  ; 
"  O  Johnny,  stay  I  if  you  go  away, 

It  will  never  be  home  again  !  " 

But  Time  its  still  sure  comfort  lent, 

Crawling,  crawling  past, 
And  Johnny's  gallant  regiment 

Was  going  to  march  at  last. 

And  steadying  up  her  stricken  soul, 

The  mother  turned  about, 
Took  what  was  Johnny's  from  the  drawer 

And  shook  the  rose-leaves  out ; 

And  brought  the  cap  she  had  lined  with  silk, 

And  strapped  his  knapsack  on, 
And  her  heart,  though  it  bled,  was  proud  as  she  said 

"  You  would  hardly  know  our  John  I  " 


BALLADS. 

Another  year,  and  the  roses 

Were  bright  on  the  bush  by  the  door  ; 
And  into  the  house  ran  Lettice, 

Her  pale  cheeks  glad  once  more. 

"  O  mother !  news  has  come  to-day ! 

'T  is  flying  all  about  ; 
Our  John's  regiment,  they  say, 

Is  all  to  be  mustered  out ! 

"  O  'mother,  you  must  buy  me  a  dress, 

And  ribbons  of  blue  and  buff! 
O  what  shall  we  say  to  make  the  day 

Merry  and  mad  enough  ! 

"  The  brightest  day  that  ever  yet 

The  sweet  sun  looked  upon, 
When  we  shall  be  dressed  in  our  very  best, 

To  welcome  home  our  John !  " 

So  up  and  down  ran  J^ettice, 
And  all  the  farmstead  rung 

O 

With  where  he  would  set  his  bayonet, 
And  where  his  cap  would  be  hung! 

And  the  mother  put  away  her  look 

Of  weary,  waiting  gloom, 
And  a  feast  was  set  and  the  neighbors  met 

To  welcome  Johnny  home. 


BALLADS. 

The  good  old  father  silent  stood, 
With  his  eager  face  at  the  pane, 

And  Lettice  was  out  at  the  door  to  shout 
When  she  saw  him  in  the  lane. 

And  by  and  by,  a  soldier 

Came  o'er  the  grassy  hill ; 
It  was  not  he  they  looked  to  see, 

And  every  heart  stood  still. 

He  brought  them  Johnny's  knapsack, 

'T  was  all  that  he  could  do, 
And  the  cap  he  had  worn  begrimed  and  torn, 

With  a  bullet-hole  straight  through ! 


O  WINDS  !  ye  are  too  rough,  too  rough ! 
O  Spring !  thou  art  not  long  enough 

For  sweetness ;  and  for  thee, 
O  Love !  thou  still  must  overpass 
Time's  low  and  dark  and  narrow  glass, 

And  fill  eternity. 


BALLADS. 


RUTH   AND   I. 

IT  was  not  day,  and  was  not  night  j 
The  eve  had  just  begun  to  light, 

Along  the  lovely  west, 
His  golden  candles,  one  by  one, 
And  girded  up  with  clouds,  the  sun 

Was  sunken  to  his  rest. 


Between  the  furrows,  brown  and  dry, 
We  walked  in  silence  —  Ruth  and  I ; 

We  two  had  been,  since  morn 
Began  her  tender  tunes  to  beat 
Upon  the  May-leaves  young  and  sweet, 

Together,  planting  corn. 

Homeward  the  evening  cattle  wetit 
In  patient,  slow,  full-fed  content, 

Led  by  a  rough,  strong  steer, 
His  forehead  all  with  burs  thick  set, 
His  horns  of  silver  tipt  with  jet, 

And  shapeless  shadow,  near. 
2 


10  BALLADS. 

With  timid,  half-reluctant  grace, 
Like  lovers  in  some  favored  place, 

The  light  and  darkness  met, 
And  the  air  trembled,  near  and  far, 
With  many  a  little  tuneful  jar 

Of  milk-pans  being  set. 

We  heard  the  house-maids  at  their  cares, 
Pouring  their  hearts  out  unawares 

In  some  sad  poet's  ditty, 
And  heard  the  fluttering  echoes  round 
Reply  like  souls  all  softly  drowned 

In  heavenly  love  and  pity. 

All  sights,  all  sounds  in  earth  and  air 
Were  of  the  sweetest ;  everywhere 

Ear,  eye,  and  heart  were  fed  ; 
The  grass  with  one  small  burning  flower 
Blushed  bright,  as  if  the  elves  that  hour 

O          * 

Their  coats  thereon  had  spread. 

One  moment,  where  we  crossed  the  brook 
Two  little  sunburnt  hands  I  took, — 

Why  did  I  let  them  go  ? 
I  Ve  been  since  then  in  many  a  land, 
Touched,  held,  kissed  many  a  fairer  hand, 

But  none  that  thrilled  me  so. 


BALLADS. 

Why,  when  the  bliss  Heaven  for  us  made 
Is  in  our  very  bosoms  laid, 

Should  we  be  all  unmoved, 
And  walk,  as  now  do  Ruth  and  I, 
'Twixt  th'  world's  furrows,  brown  and  drv. 

Unloving  and  unloved  ? 


U 


12  BALLADS. 


HAGEN   WALDER. 

THE  day,  with  a  cold,  dead  color 

Was  rising  over  the  hill, 
When  little  Hagen  Walder 

Went  out  to  grind  in  th'  mill. 

All  vainly  the  light  in  zigzags 
Fell  through  the  frozen  leaves, 

And  like  a  broidery  of  gold 
Shone  on  his  ragged  sleeves. 

No  mother  had  he  to  brighten 
His  cheek  with  a  kiss,  and  say. 

"  'T  is  cold  for  my  little  Hagen 
To  grind  in  the  mill  to-day." 

And  that  was  why  the  north  winds 
Seemed  all  in  his  path  to  meet, 

And  why  the  stones  were  so  cruel 
And  sharp  beneath  his  feet. 

And  that  was  why  he  hid  his  face 

So  oft,  despite  his  will, 
Against  the  necks  of  the  oxen 

That  turned  the  wheel  of  th'  mill. 


BALLADS.  13 

And  that  was  why  the  tear-drops 

So  oft  did  fall  and  stand 
Upon  their  silken  coats  that  were 

As  white  as  a  lady's  hand. 

So  little  Hagen  Walder 

Looked  at  the  sea  and  th'  sky, 
And  wished  that  he  were  a  salmon, 

In  the  silver  waves  to  lie ; 

And  wished  that  he  were  an  eagle, 

O        ' 

Away  through  th'  air  to  soar, 
Where  never  the  groaning  mill-wheel 
Might  vex  him  any  more  : 

And  wished  that  he  were  a  pirate, 

To  burn  some  cottage  down, 
And  warm  himself;  or  that  he  were 

A  market-lad  in  the  town, 

With  bowls  of  brignt  red  strawberries 

Shining  on  his  stall, 
And  that  some  gentle  maiden 

Would  come  and  buy  them  all ! 

So  little  Hagen  Walder 

Passed,  as  the  story  says, 
Through  dreams,  as  through  a  golden  gate, 

Into  realities. 


11  BALLADS. 

And  when  the  years  changed  places, 
Like  the  billows,  bright  and  still, 

In  th'  ocean,  Hagen  Walder 
Was  the  master  of  the  mill. 

And  all  his  bowls  of  strawberries 
Were  not  so  fine  a  show 

As  are  his  boys  and  girls  at  church 
Sitting  in  a  row  ! 


AMONG  the  pitfalls  in  our  way 
The  best  of  us  walk  blindly  ; 

O  man,  be  wary  !  watch  and  pray, 
And  judge  your  brother  kindly. 

Help  back  his  feet,  if  they  have  slid. 

Nor  count  him  still  your  debtor ; 
Perhaps  the  very  wrong  he  did 

Has  made  yourself  the  better. 


BALLADS.  15 


OUR   SCHOOLMASTER. 

WE  used  to  think  it  was  so  queer 
To  see  him,  in  liis  thin  gray  hair, 

Sticking  our  quills  behind  his  ear, 

And  straight  forgetting  they  were  there. 

We  used  to  think  it  was  so  strange 

That  he  should  twist  such  hair  to  curls, 

And  that  his  wrinkled  cheek  should  change 
Its  color  like  a  bashful  girl's. 

Our  foolish  mirth  defied  all  rule, 
As  glances,  each  of  each,  we  stole, 

The  morning  that  he  wore  to  schoo! 
A  rose-bud  in  his  button-hole. 

And  very  sagely  we  agreed 

That  such  a  dunce  was  never  known  — 
Fifty !  and  trying  still  to  read 

Love-verses  with  a  tender  tone  ! 

No  joyous  smile  would  ever  stir 
Our  sober  looks,  we  often  said, 

If  we  were  but  a  Schoolmaster, 

And  had,  withal,  his  old  white  head. 


16  BALLADS. 

One  day  we  cut  his  .knotty  staff 
Nearly  in  two,  and  each  and  all 

Of  us  declared  that  we  should  laugh 
To  see  it  break  and  let  him  fall. 

Upon  his  old  pine  desk  we  drew 

His  picture  —  pitiful  to  see, 
Wrinkled  and  bald  —  half  false,  half  true, 

And  wrote  beneath  it,  Twenty-three  ! 

Next  day  came  eight  o'clock  and  nine, 
But  he  came  not  :  our  pulses  quick 

With  play,  we  said  it  would  be  fine 
If  the  old  Schoolmaster  were  sick. 

And  still  the  beech-trees  bear  the  scars 
Of  wounds  which  we  that  morning  made, 

O 

Cutting  their  silvery  bark  to  stars 

Whereon  to  count  the  games  we  played. 

At  last,  as  tired  as  we  could  be, 
Upon  a  clay-bank,  strangely  still, 

We  sat  down  in  a  row  to  see 

His  worn-out  hat  come  up  the  hill. 

'T  was  hanging  up  at  home — a  quill 
Notched  down,  and  sticking  in  the  band, 

And  leaned  against  his  arm-chair,  still 
His  staff  was  waiting  for  his  hand. 


BALLADS.  17 

Across  his  feet  his  threadbare  coat 
Was  lying,  stuffed  with  many  a  roll 

Of  "  copy-plates,"  and,  sad  to  note, 
A  dead  rose  in  the  button-hole. 

And  he  no  more  might  take  his  place 
Our  lessons  and  our  lives  to  plan  : 

Cold  Death  had  kissed  the  wrinkled  face 
Of  that  most  gentle  gentleman. 

Ah  me,  what  bitter  tears  made  blind 
Our  young  eyes,  for  our  thoughtless  sin, 

As  two  and  two  we  walked  behind 
The  long  black  coffin  he  was  in. 

And  all,  sad  women  now,  and  men 

With  wrinkles  and  gray  hairs,  can  see 

How  he  might  wear  a  rose-bud  then. 
And  read  love- verses  tenderly. 


18  BALLADS. 


THE  best  man  should  never  pass  by 
The  worst,  but  to  brotherhood  true. 

Entreat  him  thus  gently,  "  Lo,  I 
Am  tempted  in  all  things  as  you." 

Of  one  dust  all  peoples  are  made, 
One  sky  doth  above  them  extend, 

And  whether  through  sunshine  or  shade 
Their  paths  run,  they  meet  at  the  end. 

And  whatever  his  honors  may  be,  — 
Of  riches,  or  genius,  or  blood, 

God  never  made  any  man  free 
To  find  out  a  separate  good. 


THE    GRAY   SWAN. 

"  OH  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true, 

Is  my  little  lad,  my  Elihu, 

A-sailing  with  your  ship  ?  " 

The  sailor's  eyes  were  dim  with  dew,  - 

"Your  little  lad,  your  Elihu?" 

He  said,  with  trembling  lip,  — 
"  What  little  lad  ?  what  ship  ?  " 

"  What  little  lad  !  as  if  there  could  be 

Another  such  an  one  as  he  ! 

What  little  lad,  do  you  say? 

Why,  Elihu,  that  took  to  the  sea 

The  moment  I  put  him  off  my  knee  ! 
It  was  just  the  other  day 
The    Gray  Swan  sailed  away." 


20  BALLADS. 

"  The  other  day  ?  "  the  sailor's  eyes 
Stood  open  with  a  great  surprise, — 

"The  other  day?  the  Swan?" 
His  heart  began  in  his  throat  to  rise. 
"  Ay,  ay,  sir,  here  in  the  cupboard  lies 
The  jacket  he  had  on." 
"And  so  your  lad  is  gone?" 

"Gone  with  the  Swan"     "And  did  she  stand 
With  her  anchor  clutching  hold  of  the  sand, 

For  a  month,  and  never  stir?" 
"  Why,  to  be  sure  !     I  've  seen  from  the  land, 
•  Like  a  lover  kissing  his  lady's  hand, 

The  wild  sea  kissing  her, — 

A  sight  to  remember,  sir." 

"  But,  my  good  mother,  do  you  know 

All  this  was  twenty  years  ago  ? 

I  stood  on  the   Gray  Swan's  deck, 

And  to  that  lad  I  saw  you  throw, 

Taking  it  off,  as  it  might  be,  so  ! 
The  kerchief  from  your  neck." 
"  Ay,  and  he  '11  bring  it  back  !  " 

"  And  did  the  little  lawless  lad 

That  has  made  you  sick  and  made  you  sad, 

Sail  with  the   Gray  Swan's  crew  ?  " 
"  Lawless  !  the  man  is  going  mad  ! 
The  best  boy  ever  mother  had,  — 


BALLADS.  21 

Be  sure  he  sailed  with  the  crew  ! 
What  would  you  have  him  do  ?  " 

"  And  he  has  never  written  line, 

Nor  sent  you  word,  nor  made  you  sign 

To  say  he  was  alive  ?  " 

"  Hold  !  if  't  was  wrong,  the  wrong  is  mine  ; 
Besides,  he  may  be  in  the  brine, 

And  could  he  write  from  the  grave  ? 

Tut,  man  !  what  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Gone  twenty  years,  —  a  long,  long  cruise,  — 
'T  was  wicked  thus  your  love  to  abuse  ; 

But  if  the  lad  still  live, 
And  come  back  home,  think  you  you  can 
Forgive  him  ?  "  —  "  Miserable  man, 

You're  mad  as  the  sea, — you  rave, — 

What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  " 

The  sailor  twitched  his  shirt  so  blue, 
And  from  within  his  bosom  drew 

The  kerchief.     She  was  wild. 

"  My  God !  my  Father  I  is  it  true  ? 
My  little  lad,  my  Elihu  ! 

My  blessed  boy,  my  child ! 

My  dead,  my  living  child  1  " 


22  BALLADS. 


THE   WASHERWOMAN. 

AT  the  north  end   of  our  village  stands, 
With  gable  black  and  high, 

A  weather-beaten  house,  —  I  've  stopt 
Often    as  I  went  by, 

To  see  the  strip  of  bleaching  grass 

Slipped  brightly  in  between 
The  long  straight  rows  of  hollyhocks, 

And  current-bushes  green  ; 

The  clumsy  bench  beside  the  door, 

And  oaken  washing-tub, 
Where  poor  old  Rachel  used  to  stand, 

And  rub,  and  rub,  and  rub  ! 

Her  blue-checked  apron  speckled  with 

The  suds,  so  snowy  white  ; 
From  morning  when  I  went  to  school 

Till  I  went  home  at  night, 

She  never  took  her  sunburnt  arms 

Out  of  the  steaming  tub : 
We  used  to  say  't  was  weary  work 

Only  to  hear  her  rub. 


BALLADS.  23 

With  sleeves  stretched  straight  upon  the  grass 

The  washed  shirts  used  to  lie ; 
By  dozens  I  have  counted  them 

Some  days,  as  I  went  by. 

The  burly  blacksmith,  battering  at 

His  red-hot  iron  bands, 
Would  make  a  joke  of  wishing  that 

He  had  old  Rachel's  hands  ! 

And  when  the  sharp  and  ringing  strokes 

Had  doubled  up  his  shoe, 
As  crooked  as  old  Rachel's  back, 

He  used  to  say  't  would  do. 

And  every  village  housewife,  with 

A  conscience  clear  and  light, 
Would  send  for  her  to  come  and  wash 

An  hour  or  two  at  night ! 

Her  hair  beneath  her  cotton  cap 

Grew  silver-white  and  thin  ; 
And  the  deep  furrows  in  her  face 

Ploughed  all  the  roses  in. 

Yet  patiently  she  kept  at  work,  — 

We  school-girls  used  to  say 
The  smile  about  her  sunken  mouth 

Would  quite  go  out  some  day. 


24  BALLADS. 

Nobody  ever  thought  the  spark 
That  in  her  sad  eyes  shone, 

Burned  outward  from  a  living  soul 
Immortal  as  their  own. 

And  though  a  tender  flush  sometimes 
Into  her  cheek  would  start, 

Nobody  dreamed  old  Rachel  had 
A  woman's  loving  heart ! 

At  last  she  left  her  heaps  of  clothes 

One  quiet  autumn  day, 
And  stript  from  off  her  sunburnt  arms 

The  weary  suds ,  away  ; 

That  night  within  her  moonlit  door 
She  sat  alone,  —  her  clu'n 

Sunk  in  her  hand,  —  her  eyes  shut  up, 
As  if  to  look  within. 

Her  face  uplifted  to  the  star 
That  stood  so  sweet  and  low 

Against  old  crazy  Peter's  house  — 
(He  loved  her  long  ago  !) 

Her  heart  had  worn  her  body  to 
A  handful  of  poor  dust,  — 

Her  soul  was  gone  to  be  arrayed 
In  marriage-robes,  I  trust. 


BALLADS.  25 


GROWING  RICH. 

AND  why  are  you  pale,  my  Nora? 

And  why  do  you  sigh  and  fret  ? 
The  black  ewe  had  twin  lambs  to-day, 

And  we  shall  be  rich  folk  yet. 

Do  you  mind  the  clover-ridge,  Nora, 
That  slopes  to  the  crooked  stream? 

The  brown  cow  pastured  there  this  week, 
And  her  milk  is  sweet  as  cream. 

The  old  gray  mare  that  last  year  fell 

As  thin  as  any  ghost, 
Is  getting  a  new  white  coat,  and  looks 

As  young  as  her  colt,  almost. 

And  if  the  corn-land  should  do  well, 

And  so,  please  God,  it  may, 
I  '11  buy  the  white-faced  bull  a  bell, 

To  make  the  meadows  gay. 

I  know  we  are  growing  rich,  Johnny, 

And  that  is  why  I  fret, 
For  my  little  brother  Phil  is  down 

In  the  dismal  coal-pit  yet. 


26  BALLADS. 

And  when  the  sunshine  sets  in  th'  corn, 

The  tassels  green  and  gay, 
It  will  not  touch  my  father's  eyes. 

That  are  going  blind,  they  say. 

But  if  I  were  not  sad  for  him, 

Nor  yet  for  little  Phil, 
Why,  darling  Molly's  hand,  last  year, 

Was  cut  off  in  the  mill. 

And  so,  nor  mare  nor  brown  milch-cow, 

Nor  lambs  can  joy  impart, 
For  the  blind  old  man  and  th'  mill  and  mitie 

Are  all  upon  my  heart. 


Too  much  of  joy  is  sorrowful, 
So  cares  must  needs  abound  ; 

The  vine  that  bears  too  many  flowers 
Will   trail  upon  the  ground. 


BALLADS.  27 


SANDY  MACLEOD. 

WHEN  I  think  of  the  weary  nights  and  days 
Of  poor,  hard-working  folk,  always 
I  see,  with  his  head  on  his  bosom  bowed, 
The  luckless  shoemaker,  Sandy  Macleod. 

Jeering  schoolboys  used  to  say 
His  chimney  would  never  be  raked  away 
By  the  moon,  and  you  by  a  jest  so  rough 
May  know  that  his  cabin  was  low  enough. 

Nothing  throve  with  him ;  his  colt  and  cow 
Got  their  living,  he  did  n't  know  how,  — 
Yokes  on  their  scraggy  necks  swinging  about, 
Beating  and  bruising  them  year  in  and  out. 

Out  at  the  elbow  he  used  to  go,  — 
Alas  for  him  that  he  did  not  know 
The  way  to  make  poverty  regal, — not  ho, 
If  such  way  under  the  sun  there  be. 

Sundays  all  day  in  the  door  he  sat, 

A  string  of  withered-up  crape  on  his  hat, 

The  crown  half  fallen  against  his  head, 

And  half  sewed  in  with  a  shoemaker's  thread. 


28  BALLADS. 

Sometimes  with  his  hard  and  toil-worn  hand 
He  would  smooth  and  straighten  th'  faded  band, 
Thinking  perhaps  of  a  little  mound 
Black  with  nettles  the  long  year  round. 

• 

Blacksmith  and  carpenter,  both  were  poor, 
And  there  was  the  schoolmaster  who,  to  be  sure, 
Had  seen  rough  weather,  but  after  all 
When  they  met  Sandy  he  went  to  the  wall. 

His  wife  was  a  lady,  they  used  to  say, 
Repenting  at  leisure  her  wedding-day, 
And  that  she  was  come  of  a  race  too  proud 
E'er  to  have  mated  with  Sandy  Macleod  ! 

So  fretting  she  sat  from  December  to  June, 
While  Sandy,  poor  soul,  to  a  funeral-tune 
Would  beat  out  his  hard,  heavy  leather,  until 
He  set  himself  up,  and  got  strength  to  be  still. 

It  was  not  the  full  moon  that  made  it  so  light 
In  the  poor  little  dwelling  of  Sandy  one  night, 
It  was  not  the  candles  all  shining  around,  — 
Ah,  no  I  't  was  the  light  of  the  day  he  had  found. 


BALLADS.  29 


THE   PICTURE-BOOK. 

THE  black  walnut-logs  in  the  chimney 
Made  ruddy  the  house  with  their  light, 

And  the  pool  in  the  hollow  was  covered 
With  ice  like  a  lid,  —  it  was  night ; 

And  Roslyn  and  I  were  together,  — 
I  know  now  the  pleased  look  he  wore, 

And  the  shapes  of  the  shadows  that  checkered 
The  hard  yellow  planks  of  the  floor ; 

And  how,  when  the  wind  stirred  the  candle, 
Affrighted  they  ran  from  its  gleams, 

And  crept  up  the  wall  to  the  ceiling 
Of  cedar,  and  hid  by  the  beams. 

There  were  books  on  the  mantel-shelf,  dusty, 
And  shut,  and  I  see  in  my  mind, 

The  pink-colored  primer  of  pictures 
We  stood  on  our  tiptoes  to  find. 

We  opened  the  leaves  where  a  came] 
Was  seen  on  a  sand-covered  track, 

A-snuffing  for  water,  and  bearing 
A  great  bag  of  gold  on  his  back ; 


30  BALLADS. 

And  talked  of  the  free  flowing  rivers 

A  tithe  of  his  burden   would  buy, 
And  said,  when  the  lips  of  the  sunshine 

Had  sucked  his  last  water-skin  dry  ; 

With  thick  breath  and  mouth  gaping  open, 
And  red  eyes  a-strain  in  his  head, 

His  bones  would  push  out  as  if  buzzards 
Had  picked  him  before  he  was  dead  ! 

Then  turned  the  leaf  over,  and  finding 

A  palace  that  banners  made  gay, 
Forgot  the  bright  splendor  of  roses 

That  shone  through  our  windows  in  May  ; 

And  sighed  for  the  great  beds  of  princes, 
While  pillows  for  him  and  for  me 

Lay  soft  among  ripples  of  ruffles 
As  sweet  and  as  white  as  could  be. 

And  sighed  for  their  valleys,  forgetting 
How  warmly  the  morning  sun  kissed 

Our  hills,  as  they  shrugged  their  green  shoulders 
Above  the  white  sheets  of  the  mist. 

Their  carpets  of  dyed  wool  were  softer, 
We  said,  than  the  planks  of  our  floor, 

Forgetting  the  flowers  that  in  summer 
Spread  out  their  gold  mats  at  our  door. 


PALL  A  DP.  81 

The  storm  spit  its  wrath  in  the  chimney, 

And  blew  the  cold  ashes  aside, 
And  only  one  poor  little  fagot 

Hung  out  its  red  tongue  as  it  died , 

When  Roslyn  and  I  through  the  darkness 

Crept  oft'  to  our  shivering  beds, 
A  thousand  vague  fancies  and  wishes 

Still  wildly  astir  in  our  heads  : 

Not  guessing  that  we,  too,  were  straying 
In  thought  on  a  sand-covered  track, 

O  ' 

Like  the  camel  a-dying  for  water, 
And  bearing  the  gold  on  his  back. 


HE  spoils  his  house  and  throws  his  pains  away 
Who,  as  the  sun  veers,  builds  his  windows  o'er, 

For,  should  he  wait,  the  Light,  some  time  of  day, 
Would  come  and  sit  beside  him  in  his  door. 


32  BALLADS, 


A   WALK  THROUGH   THE    SNOW. 

I  WALKED  from  our  wild  north  country  once, 

In  a  driving  storm  of  snow  ; 
Forty  and  seven   miles  in  a  day  — 

You  smile,  —  do  you  think  it  slow  ? 
You  would  n't  if  ever  you  had  ploughed 

Through  a  storm  like  that,  I  trow. 

There  was  n't  a  cloud  as  big  as  my  hand, 

The  summer  before,  in  the  sky  ; 
The  grass  in  th'  meadows  was  ground  to  dust, 

The  springs  and  wells  went  dry  ; 
We  must  have  corn,  and  three  stout  men 

Were  picked  to  pro  and  buy. 

Well,  1  was  one  ,  two  Dags  I  swung 

Across  my  shoulder,  so ! 
And  kissed  my  wife  and  boys,  —  their  eyes 

Were  blind  to  see  me  go. 
'T  was  a  bitter  day,  and  just  as  th'  sun 

Went  down,  we  met  the  snow  ! 


BALLADS. 

At  first  we  whistled  and  laughed  and  sung, 

Our  blood  so  nimbly  stirred  ; 
But  as  the  snow-clogs  dragged  at  our  feet, 

And  the  air  grew  black  and  blurred, 
We  walked  together  for  miles  and  miles, 

And  did  not  speak  a  word  I 

I  never  saw  a  wilder  storm  : 

It  blew  and  beat  with  a  will ; 
Beside  me,  like  two  men  of  sleet, 

Walked  my  two  mates,  until 
They  fell  asleep  in  their  armor  of  ice, 

And  both  of  them  stood  still. 

I  knew  that  they  were  warm  enough, 

And  yet  I  could  not  bear 
To  strip  them  of  their  cloaks  ;  their  eye? 

Were  open  and  a-stare ; 
And  so  I  laid  their  "hands  across 

Their  breasts,  and  left  them  there. 

And  ran,  —  O  Lord,  I  cannot  tell 

How  fast !  in  my  dismay 
I  thought  the  fences  and  the  trees  — 

The  cattle,  where  they  Iny 
So  black  against  their  stacks  of  snow  — 

All  swam  the  other  way  ! 
5 


34  BALLADS. 

And  when  at  dawn  I  saw  a  hut, 

With  smoke  upcurling  wide, 
I  thought  it  must  have  been  my  mates 

That  lived,  and  I  that  died  ; 
'T  was  heaven  to  see  through  tli'  frosty  panes 

The  warm,  red  cheeks  inside  ! 


THE  glance  that  doth  thy  neighbor  doubt 

Turn  thou,  O  man,  within, 
And  see  if  it  will  not  bring  out 

Some  unsuspected  sin. 

To  hide  from  shame  the  branded  brow, 

Make  broad  thy  charity, 
And  judge  no  man,  except  as  thou 

Wouldst  have  him  judge  of  thee. 


THE   WATER-BEARER. 

'T  WAS  in  the  middle  of  summer, 

And  burning  hot  the  sun, 
That  Margaret  sat  on  the  low-roofed  porch, 

A-singing  as  she  spun  : 

Singing  a  ditty  of  slighted  love, 

That  shook  with  every  note 
The  softly  shining  hair  that  fell 

In  ripples  round  her  throat. 


36  BALLADS. 

The  changeful  color  of  her  cheek 
At  a  breath  would  fall  and  rise, 

And  even  th'  sunny  lights  of  hope 
Made  shadows  in  her  eyes. 

Beneath  the  snowy  petticoat 

You  guessed  the  feet  were  bare, 

By  the  slippers  near  her  on  the  floor,  — 
A  dainty  little  pair. 

She  loved  the  low  and  tender  tones 
The  weaned  summer  yields, 

When  out  of  her  wheaten  leash  she  slips 
And  strays  into  frosty  fields. 

And  better  than  th'  time  that  all 

The  air  with  music  fills, 
She  loved  the  little  sheltered  nest 

Alive  with  yellow  bills. 

But  why  delay  my  tale,  to  make 

A  poem  in  her  praise  ? 
Enough  that  truth  and  virtue  shone 

In  all  her  modest  ways. 

'T  was  noon-day  when  the  housewife  said, 
"  Now,  Margaret,  leave  undone 

Your  task  of  spinning-work,  and  set 
Your  wheel  out  of  the  sun  ; 


BALLADS.  U7 

"  And  tie  your  slippers  on,  and  take 

The  cedar-pail  with  bands 
Yellow  as  gold,  and  bear  to  the  field 

Cool  water  for  the  hands !  " 

And  Margaret  set  her  wheel  aside, 

And  breaking  off  her  thread, 
Went  forth  into  the  harvest-field 

With  her  pail  upon  her  head,  — 

Her  pail  of  sweetest  cedar-wood, 

With  shining  yellow  bands, 
Through  clover  reaching  its  red  tops 

Almost  into  her  hands. 

Her  ditty  flowing  on  the  air, 

For  she  did  not  break  her  song, 
And  the  water  dripping  o'er  th'  grass, 

From  her  pail  as  she  went  along,  — 

Over  the  grass  that  said  to  her, 

Trembling  through  all  its  leaves, 
"  A  bright  rose  for  -some  harvester 

To  bind  among  his  sheaves  !  " 

And  clouds  of  gay  green  grasshoppers 

Flew  up  the  way  she  went, 
And  beat  their  wings  against  their  sides, 

And  chirped  their  discontent. 


BALLADS. 

And  the  blackbird  left  the  piping  of 

His  amorous,  airy  glee, 
And  put  his  head  beneath  his  wing,  — 

An  evil  sign  to  see. 

The  meadow-herbs,  as  if  they  felt 
Some  secret  wound,  in  showers 

Shook  down  their  bright  buds  till  her  way 
Was  ankle-deep  with  flowers. 

But  Margaret  never  heard  th'  voice 
That  sighed  in  th'  grassy  leaves, 

"  A  bright  rose  for  some  harvester 
To  bind  among  his  sheaves  !  " 

Nor  saw  the  clouds  of  grasshoppers 

Along  her  path  arise, 
Nor  th'  daisy  hang  her  head  aside 

And  shut  her  golden  eyes. 

She  never  saw  the  blackbird  when 

He  hushed  his  amorous  glee, 
And  put  his  head  beneath  his  wing,  — 

That  evil  sign  to  see. 

Nor  did  she  know  the  meadow-herbs 
Shook  down  their  buds  in  showers 

To  choke  her  pathway,  though  her  feet 
Were  ankle-deep  in  flowers. 


BALLADS.  39 

But  humming  still  of  slighted  love, 

That  shook  at  every  note 
The  softly  shining  hair  that  fell 

In  ripples  round  her  throat, 

She  came  'twixt  winrows  heaped  as  high, 

And  higher  than  her  waist, 
And  under  a  hush  of  sassafras 

The  cedar-pail  she  placed. 

And  with  the  drops  like  starry  rain 

A-glittering  in  her  hair, 
She  gave  to  every  harvester 

His  cool  and  grateful  share. 

But  there  was  one  with  eyes  so  sweet 

Beneath  his  shady  brim, 
That  thrice  within  the  cedar-pail 

She  dipped  her  cup  for  him  ! 

What  wonder  if  a  young  man's  heart 

Should  feel  her  beauty's  charm, 
And  in  his  fancy  clasp  her  like 

The  sheaf  within  his  arm  ; 

What  wonder  if  his  tender  looks, 

That  seemed  the  sweet  disguise 
Of  sweeter  things  unsaid,  should  make 

A  picture  in  her  eyes  ! 


40  BALLADS. 

What  ^fonder  if  the  single  rose 
That  graced  her  cheek  erewhile, 

Deepened  its  cloudy  crimson,  till 
It  doubled  in  his  smile  ! 

Ah  me  !  the  housewife  never  said, 
Again,  when  Margaret  spun,  — 

"  Now  leave  your  task  awhile,  and  set 
Your  wheel  out  of  the  sun  ; 

"  And  tie  your  slippers  on,  and  take 
The  pail  with  yellow  bands, 

And  bear  into  the  harvest-field 
Cool  water  for  the  hands." 

For  every  day,  and  twice  a-day, 
Did  Margaret  break  her  thread, 

And  singing,  hasten  to  the  field, 
With  her  pail  upon  her  head,  — 

Her  pail  of  sweetest  cedar-wood, 
And  shining  yellow  bands,  — 

For  all  her  care  was  now  to  bear 
Cool  water  to  the  hands. 

What  marvel  if  the  young  man's  love 

Unfolded  leaf  by  leaf, 
Until  within  his  arms  ere  long 

He  clasped  her  like  a  sheaf! 


BALLADS.  41 

What  marvel  if  't  was  Margaret's  heart 

With  fondest  hopes  that  beat, 
While  th'  young  man's  fancy  idle  lay 

As  his  sickle  in  the  Avheat. 

That,  while  her  thought  flew,  maiden-like, 

To  years  of  marriage  bliss, 
His  lay  like  a  bee  in-  a  flower,  shut  up 

Within  the  moment's  kiss  ! 

What  marvel  if  his  love  grew  cold, 

And  fell  off  leaf  by  leaf, 
And  that  her  heart  was  choked  to  death, 

Like  the  rose  within  his  sheaf. 

When  autumn  filled  her  lap  with  leaves, 

Yellow,  and  cold,  and  wet, 
The  bands  of  th'  pail  turned  black,  and  th'  wheel 

On  the  porch-side,  idle  set. 

And  Margaret's  hair  was  combed  and  tied 

Under  a  cap  of  lace, 
And  th'  housewife  held  the  baby  up 

To  kiss  her  quiet  face  ; 

And  all  the  sunburnt  harvesters 

Stood  round  the  door,  —  each  one 
Telling  of  some  good  word  or  deed 

That  she  had  said  or  done. 
6 


42  BALLADS. 

Nay,  there  was  one  that  pulled  about 

His  face  his  shady  brim, 
As  if  it  were  his  kiss,  not  Death's, 

That  made  her  eyes  so  dim. 

And  while  the  tearful  women  told 
That  when  they  pinned  her  shroud, 

One  tress  from  th'  ripples  round  her  neck 
Was  gone,  he  wept  aloud  ; 

And  answered,  pulling  down  his  brim 

Until  he  could  not  see, 
It  was  some  ghost  that  stole  the  tress, 

For  that  it  was  not  he  ! 

'T  is  years  since  on  the  cedar-pail 
The  yellow  bands  grew  black,  — 

'T  is  years  since  in  the  harvest-field 
They  turned  th'  green  sod  back 

To  give  poor  Margaret  room,  and  all 
Who  chance  that  way  to  pass, 

May  see  at  the  head  of  her  narrow  bed 
A   bush  of  sassafras. 

Yet  often  in  the  time  o'  th'  year 
When  the  hay  is  mown  and  spread, 

There  walks  a  maid  in  th'  midnight  shade 
With  a  pail  upon  her  head. 


BALLADS.  43 


THE   BEST   JUDGMENT. 

GET  up,  my  little  handmaid, 
And  see  what  you  will  see  ; 

Tlie  stubble-fields  and  all  the  fields 
Are  white  as  they  can  be. 

Put  on  your  crimson  cashmere, 
And  hood  so  soft  and  warm, 

With  all  its  woollen  linings, 
And  never  heed  the  storm. 

For  you  must  find  the  miller 
In  the  west  of  Wertburg-town, 

~  * 

And  bring  me  meal  to  feed  my  cows, 
Before  the  sun  is  down. 

Then  woke  the  little  handmaid, 
From  sleeping  on  her  arm, 

And  took  her  crimson  cashmere, 
And  hood  with  woollen  warm  ; 

And  bridle,  with  its  buckles 

Of  silver,  from  the  wall, 
And  rode  until  the  golden  sun 

Was  sloping  to  his  fall. 


44  BALLADS. 

Then  on  the  miller's  door-stone, 
In  the  west  of  Wertburg-town, 

She  dropt  the  bridle  from  her  hands, 
And  quietly  slid  down. 

And  when  to  her  sweet  face  her  beast 
Turned  round,  as  if  he  said, 

"  How  cold  I  am ! "  she  took  her  hood 
And  put  it  on  his  head. 

Soft  spoke  she  to  the  miller, 

"  Nine  cows  are  stalled  at  home, 
And  hither  for  three  bass  of  meal, 

O  ' 

To  feed  them,  I  am  come." 

Now  when  the  miller  saw  the  price 
She  brought  was  not  by  half 

Enough  to  buy  three  bags  of  meal, 
He  filled  up  two  with  chaff. 

The  night  was  wild  and  windy, 
The  moon  was  thin  and  old, 

As  home  the  little  handmaid  rode, 
All  shivering  with  the  cold, 

Beside  the  river,  black  with  ice, 

And  through  the  lonesome  wood ; 
The  snow  upon  her  hair  the  while 
f:  like  a  hood. 


BALLADS.  46 

And  when  beside  the  roof-tree 
Her  good  beast  neighed  aloud, 

O  O  ' 

Her  pretty  crimson  cashmere 
Was  whiter  than  a  shroud. 

"  Get  down,  you  silly  handmaid," 
The  old  dame  cried,  "  get  down,  — 

You  've  been  a  long  time  riding 

From  the  west  of  Wertburg-town  !  " 

And  from  her  oaken  settle 

Forth  hobbled  she  amain,  — 
Alas  !  the  slender  little  hands 

Were  frozen  to  the  rein. 

Then  came  the  neighbors,  one  and  all, 

With  melancholy  brows, 
Mourning  because  the  dame  had  lost 

The  keeper  of  her  cows. 

And  cursing  the  rich  miller, 

In  blind,  misguided  zeal, 
Because  he  sent  two  bags  of  chaff 

And  only  one  of  meal. 

Dear  Lord,  how  little  man's  award 

The  right  or  wrong  attest, 
And  he  who  judges  least,  I  think, 

Is  he  who  judges  best. 


46  BALLADS. 


HUGH   THORNDYKE. 

EGALTON'S  hills  are  sunny, 

And  brave  with  oak  and  pine, 

And  Egalton's  sons  and  daughters 
Are  tall  and  straight  and  fine. 

The  harvests  in   the  summer 
Cover  the  land  like  a  smile, 

For  Egalton's  men  and  women 
Are  busy  all  the  while. 

'T  is  merry  in  the  mowing 
To  see  the  great  swath  fall, 

And  the  little  laughing  maidens 
Raking,  one  and  all. 

Their  heads  like  golden  lilies 

Shining  over'  the  hay, 
And  every  one  among  them 

As  sweet  as  a  rose  in  May. 

And  yet  despite  the  favor 

Which  Heaven  doth  thus  allot, 

Egalton  has  its  goblin, 

As  what  good  land  has  not  ? 


BALLADS.  47 

Hugh  Thorn  dyke  —  (peace  be  with  him, 

He  is  not  living  now)  — 
Was  tempted  by  this  creature 

One  day  to  leave  his  plow, 

And  sit  beside  the  furrow 

In  a  shadow  cool  and  sweet, 
For  the  lying  goblin  told  him 

That  he  would  sow  his  wheat. 

And  told  him  this,  moreover, 

That  if  he  would  not  mind, 
Hi^  house  should  burn  to  ashes, 

His  children  be  struck  blind  ! 

So,   trusting  half,  half  frightened, 

Poor  Hugh  with  many  a  groan 
Waited  beside  the  furrow, 

But  the  wheat  was  never  sown. 

And  when  the  fields  about  him 
Grew  white,  —  with  very  shame 

He  told  his  story,  giving 
The  goblin  all  the  blame. 

O 

Now  Hugh's  wife  loved  her  husband, 

And  when  he  told  her  this, 
She  took  his  brawny  hands  in   hers 

And  gave  them  each  a  kiss, 


48  BALLADS. 

Saying,  we  ourselves  this  goblin 
Shall  straightway  lay  to  rest,  — 

The  more  he  does  his  worst,   dear  Hugh, 
The  more  we  '11  do  our  best ! 

To  work  they  went,  and  all  turned  out 

Just  as  the  good  wife  said, 
And  Hugh  was  blest, —  his  com  that  year, 

Grew  higher  than  his  head. 

They  sing  a  song  in  Egalton 
Hugh  made  there,  long  ago, 

Which  says  that  honest  love  and  wor*. 
Are  all  we  need  below. 


STILL  from  the  unsatisfying  quest 
To  know  the  final  plan, 

I  turn  my  soul  to  what  is  best 
In  nature  and  in  man. 


BALLADS.  49 


FAITHLESS. 

SEVEN  great  windows  looking  seaward, 
Seven  smooth  columns  white  and  high  ; 

Here  it  was  we  made  our  bright  plans, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Soft  and  sweet  the  water  murmured 
By  yon  stone  wall,  low  and  gray, 

'T  was  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

On  the  porch,  now  dark  and  lonesome, 
Sat  we  as  the  hours  went  by, 

Fearing  nothing,  hoping  all  things, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Singing  low  and  pleasant  ditties, 
Kept  the  tireless  wind  his  way, 

Through  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight, 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

Not  for  sake  of  pleasant  ditties, 
Such  as  winds  may  sing  or  sigh, 

Sat  we  on  the  porch  together, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

7 


50  BALLADS. 

Shrilly  crew  the  cock  so  watchful, 
Answering  to  the  watch-dog's  bay, 

In  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

Had  the  gates  of  Heaven  been  open 
We  would  then  have  passed  them  by, 

Well  content  with  earthly  pleasures, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

I  have  seen  the  bees  thick-flying,  — 
Azure-winged  and  ringed  with  gold  ; 

I  have  seen  the  sheep  from  washing 
Come  back  snowy  to  the  fold  ; 

And  her  hair  was  bright  as  bees  are, 
Bees  with  shining  golden  bands  ; 

And  no  wool  was  ever  whiter 
Than  her  little  dimpled  hands. 

Oft  we  promised  to  be  lovers, 

Howe'er  fate  our  faith  should  try ; 
Givino-  kisses  back  for  kisses, 

O  * 

Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Tears,  sad  tears,  be  stayed  from  falling ; 

Ye  can  bring  no  faintest  ray 
From  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 

Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 


BALLADS.  51 

If  some  friend  would  come  and  tell  me, 

"  On  your  Mildred's  eyes  so  blue 
Grass  has  grown,  but  on  her  death-bed 

She  was  saying  prayers  for  you ; " 

Here  beside  the  smooth  white  columns 

I  should  not  so  grieve  to-day, 
For  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 

Of  the  middle  of  the   May. 


Do  not  look  for  wrong  and  evil  — 
You  will  find  them  if  you  do ; 

As  you  measure  for  your  neighbor 
He  will  measure  back  to  you. 

Look  for  goodness,  look  for  gladness, 
You  will  meet  them  all  the  while ; 

If  you  bring  a  smiling  visage 
To  the  glass,  you  meet  a  smile. 


52 


BALLADS. 


MY   FADED   SHAWL. 


TELL  you  a  stoiy,  do  you 

say? 

Whatever    my    wits    re 
member  ? 

Well,  going    down    to    the 

woods  one  day 
Through    the    winds    o' 

the  wild  November, 
I   met   a    lad,  called  Char 
ley. 


lived 


on 


the    crest    o'    the    Krumley 
ridge, 

And  I  was  a  farmer's  daughter, 
And  under  the  hill  by  the  Krumley  bridge 
Of  the  crazy  Krumley  water, 

Lived  this  poor  lad,  Charley. 

Right  well  I  knew  his  ruddy  cheek, 

And  step  as  light  as  a  feather, 
Although  we  never  were  used  to  speak, 

And  never  to  play  together, 

I  and  this  poor  lad  Charley. 


BALLADS.  68 

So,  when  I  saw  him  hurrying  down 

My  path,  will  you  believe  me  ? 
I  knit  my  brow  to  an  ugly  frown,  — 

Forgive  me,  O  forgive  me  ! 

Sweet  shade  of  little  Charley. 

The  dull  clouds  dropped  their  skirts  of  snow 
On  the  hills,  and  made  them  colder; 

I  was  only  twelve  years  old,  or  so, 
And  may  be  a  twelvemonth  older 
Was  Charley,  dearest  Charley. 

A  faded  shawl,  with  flowers  o'  blue, 

All  tenderly  and  fairly 
Enwrought  by  his  mother's  hand,  I  knew, 

He  wore  that  day,  my  Charley, 
My  little  love,  my  Charley. 

His  great  glad  eyes  with  light  were  lit 
Like  the  dewy  light  o'  the  morning ; 

His  homespun  jacket,  not  a  whit  , 

Less  proudly,  for  my  scorning, 

He  wore,  brave-hearted  Charley. 

I  bore  a  pitcher,  —  't  was  our  pride,  — 

At  the  fair  my  father  won  it, 
And  consciously  I  turned  the  side 

With  the  golden  lilies  on  it, 

To  dazzle  the  eyes  o'  Charley. 


54  BALLADS. 

This  pitcher,  and  a  milk-white  loaf, 

Piping  hot  from  the  platter, 
When,  where  the  path  turned  sharply  off 

To  the  crazy  Krumley  water, 
I  came  upon  my  Charley. 

He  smiled,  —  my  pulses  never  stirred 
From  their  still  and  steady  measures, 

Till  the  wind  came  flapping  down  like  a  bird 
And  caught  away  my  treasures. 

"  Help  me,  0  Charley  !  Charley  ! 

My  loaf,  my  golden  lilies  gone  !  " 

My  heart  was  all  a-flutter  ; 
For  I  saw  them  whirling  on  and  on 

To  the  frozen  Krumley, water, 

And  then  I  saw  my  Charley, 

The  frayed  and  faded  shawl  from  his  neck 
Unknot,  with  a  quick,  wise  cunning, 

And  speckled  with  snow-flakes,  toss  it  back, 
That  he  might  be  free  for  running. 
My  good,  great-hearted  Charley. 

I  laid  it  softly  on  my  arm, 

I  warmed  it  in  my  bosom, 
And  traced  each  broider-stitch  to  the  form 

Of  its  wilding  model  blossom, 

For  sake  of  my  gentle  Charley. 


BALLADS.  55 

Away,  away !  like  a  shadow  fleet ! 
The  air  was  thick  and  blinding  ; 

~    ' 

The  icy  stones  were  under  his  feet, 
And  the  way  was  steep  and  winding. 

Come  back  !  come  back,  my  Charley  ! 

He  waved  his  ragged  cap  in  the  air, 

My  childish  fears  to  scatter  ; 
Dear  Lord,  was  it  Charley  ?     Was  he  there, 

On  th'  treacherous  crust  o'  th'   water? 
No  more  !  't  is  death  !  my  Charley. 

The  thin  blue  glittering  sheet  of  ice 

Bends,  breaks,  and  falls  asunder  ; 
His  arms  are  lifted  once,  and  twice  I 

My  God  !  he  is  going  under ! 

He  is  drowned  !  he  is  dead  !  my  Charley. 

The  wild  call  stops,  —  the  blood  runs  chill ; 

I  dash  the  tears  from  my  lashes, 
And  strain  my  gaze  to  th'  foot  o'  th'  hill,  — 

Who  flies  so  fast  through  the  rushes  ? 
My  drowned  love  ?  my  Charley  ? 

My  brain  is  wild,  —  I  laugh,  I  cry,  — 

The  chill  blood  thaws  and  rallies  ; 
What  holds  he  thus,  so  safe  and  high  ? 

My  loaf?  and  my  golden  lilies  ? 

Charley  !  my  sweet,  sweet  Charley ! 


56  BALLADS. 

Across  my  mad  brain  word  on   word 

Of  tenderness  went  whirling  ; 
I  kissed  him,  called  him  my  little  bird 

O'  th'  woods,  my  dove,  my  darling, — 
My  true,  true  love,  my  Charley. 

In  what  sweet  phrases  he  replied 
I  know  not  now  —  no  matter  — 

This  only,  that  he  would  have  died 
In  the  crazy  Krumley  water 

To  win  my  praise,  —  dear  Charley  ! 

He  took  the  frayed  and  faded  shawl, 

For  his  sake  warmed  all  over, 
And  wrapped  me  round  and  round  with  all 

The  tenderness  of  a  lover,  — 

My  best,  my  bravest  Charley  ! 

And  when  his  shoes  o'  the  snows  were  full, — 
Ay,  full  to  their  tops,  —  a-smiling 

He  said  they  were  lined  with  a  fleece  o'  wool, 
The  pain  o'  th'  frost  beguiling. 

Was  ever  a  lad  like  Charley  ? 

So  down  the  slope  o'  th'  Krumley  ridge, 

Our  hands  locked  fast  together, 
And  over  the  crazy  Krumley  bridge, 

We  went  through  the  freezing  weather, — 
I  and  my  drowned  Charley. 


BALLADS.  57 

The  cornfields  all  of  ears  were  bare; 

But  the  stalks,  so  bright  and  brittle, 
And  the  black  and  empty  husks  were  there 

For  the  mouths  of  the  hungry  cattle. 
We  passed  them,  I  and  Charley, 

And  passed  the  willow-tree  that  went 
With  the  wind,  as  light  as  a  feather, 

And  th'  two  proud  oaks  with  their  shoulders  bent 
Till  their  faces  came  together,  — 
Whispering,  I  said  to  Charley : 

The  hollow  sycamore,  so  white, 

The  old  gum,  straight  and  solemn, 
With  never  the  curve  of  a  root  in  sight ; 

But  set  in  the  ground  like  a  column, — 
I,  prattling  to  my  Charley. 

We  left  behind  the  sumach  hedge, 

And  the  waste  of  stubble  crossing, 
Came  at  last  to  the  dusky  edge 

Of  the  woods,  so  wildly  tossing, — 
I  and  my  quiet  Charley. 

Ankle-deep  in  the  leaves  we  stood,  — 

The  leaves  that  were  brown  as  leather, 
And  saw  the  choppers  chopping  the  wood, — 
Seven  rough  men  together, — 
I  and  my  drooping  Charley. 
8 


58  BALLADS. 

I  see  him  now  as  I  saw  him  stand 

With  my  loaf —  he  had  hardly  won  it  — 

And  the  beautiful  pitcher  in  his  hand, 
With  the  golden  lilies  on  it,  — 

My  little  saint,  —  my  Charley. 

The  stubs  were  burning  here  and  there, 
The  winds  the  fierce  flames  blowing, 

And  the  arms  o'  th'  choppers,  brown  and  bare, 
Now  up,  now  down  are  going,  — 
I  turn  to  them  from  Charley. 

Right  merrily  the  echoes  ring 

From  the  sturdy  work  a-doing, 
And  as  the  woodsmen  chop,  they  sing 

Of  the  girls  that  they  are  wooing. 
O  what  a  song  for  Charley ! 

This  way  an  elrn  begins  to  lop, 

And  that,  its  balance  losing, 
And  the  squirrel  comes  from  his  nest  in  the  top, 

And  sits  in  the  boughs  a-musino;. 

O  O 

What  ails  my  little  Charley? 

The  loaf  from  out  his  hand  he  drops, 

His  eyelid  flutters,  closes; 
He  tries  to  speak,  he  whispers,  stops,  — 

His  mouth  its  rose-red  loses, — 

One  look,  just  one,  my  Charley ! 


BALLADS.  59 

And  now  his  white  and  frozen  cheek 

Each   wild-eyed  chopper  fixes, 
And  never  a  man  is  heard  to  speak 

As  they  set  their  steel-blue  axes, 

And  haste  to  the  help  o'   Charley ! 

Say,  what  does  your  beautiful  pitcher  hold  ? 

Come  tell  us  if  you  can,  sir  ! 
The  chopper's  question  was  loud  and  bold/ 

But  never  a  sign  nor  answer: 
All  fast  asleep  was  Charley. 

The  stubs  are  burning  low  to  th'  earth, 
The  winds  the  fierce  flames  flaring 

~  * 

And  now  to  the  edge  of  the  crystal  hearth 
The  men  in  their  arms  are  bearing 

O 

The  clay-cold  body  of  Charley. 

O'er  heart,  o'er  temple  those  rude  hands  go, 

Each  hand  as  light  as  a  brother's, 
As  they  gather  about  him  in  the  snow, 

Like  a  company  of  mothers,  — 

My  dead,  my  darling  Charley. 

Before  them  all,  (my  heart  grew  bold,) 

From  off  my  trembling  bosom, 
I  unwound  the  mantle,  fold  by  fold, 

All  for  my  blighted  blossom, 

My  sweet  white  flower,  —  my  Charley. 


BALLADS. 

I  have  tokens  large,  I  have  tokens  small 
Of  all  my  life's  lost  pleasures, 

But  that  poor  frayed  and  faded  shawl 
Is  the  treasure  of  my  treasures,  — 
The  first,  last  gift  of  Charley. 


CARE. 

CARE  is  like  a  husbandman 

Who  doth  guard  our  treasures, 

And  the  while,  all  ways  he  can, 
Spoils  our  harmless  pleasures. 

Loving  hearts  and  laughing  brows, 
Most  he  seeks  to  plunder, 

And  each  furrow  that  he  ploughs 
Turns  the  roses  under. 


BALLADS.  61 


OLD   CHUMS. 

Is  it  you,  Jack  ?     Old  boy,  is  it  really  you  ? 

I  should  n't  have  known  you  but  that  I  was  told 
You  might  be  expected ;  —  pray,  how  do  you  do  ? 

But  what,  under  heaven,  has  made  you  so  old? 

Your  hair  !   why,  you  've  only  a  little  gray  fuzz ! 

And  your  beard  's  white  !  but  that  can  be  beautifully 

dyed  ; 
And  your  legs  are  n't  but  just  half  as  long  as  they  was  ; 

And  then  —  stars  and  garters  !    your  vest  is  so  wide  ! 

Is  this  your  hand  ?     Lord,  how  I  envied  you  that 
In  the  time  of  our  courting,  —  so  soft,  and  so  small, 

And  now  it  is  callous  inside,  and  so  fat, — 

Well,  you  beat  the  very  old  deuce,  that  is  all. 

Turn  round  !   let  me  look  at  you  I   is  n't  it  odd, 

How  strange  in  a  few  years  a  fellow's  chum  grows  ! 

Your  eye  is  shrunk  up  like  a  bean  in  a  pod, 

And  what   are    these  lines   branching   out  from   your 
nose  ? 


62  BALLADS. 

Your  back  lias  gone  up  and  your  shoulders  gone  down, 
And  all  the  old  roses  are  under  the  plough ; 

Why,  Jack,  if  we  'd  happened  to  meet  about  town, 
I  would  n't  have  known  you  from  Adam,  I  vow  ! 

You've  had  trouble,  have  you?  I  'm  sorry;  but,  John, 
All  trouble  sits  lightly  at  your  time  of  life. 

How  's  Billy,  my  namesake?  You  don't  say  he  's  gone 
To  the  war,  John,  and  that  you  have  buried  your 
wife  ? 

Poor  Katharine  !   so  she  has  left  you  —  ah  me  ! 

I  thought  she  would  live  to  be  fifty,  or  more. 
What  is  it  you  tell  me  ?     She  was  fifty-three  ! 

0  no,  Jack !  she  was  n't  so  much,  by  a  score  ! 

Well,  there  's  little  Katy,  —  was  that  her  name,  John  ? 

She  '11  rule  your  house  one  of  these  days  like  a  queen. 
That  baby  !  good  Lord !  is  she  married  and  gone  ? 

With  a  Jack  ten  years  old  !   and  a  Katy  fourteen  ! 

Then  I  give  it  up  !     Why,  you  're  younger  than  I 
By  ten   or   twelve   years,  and   to  think  you  've  come 

back 
A  sober  old  graybeard,  just  ready  to  die  ! 

1  don't  understand  how  it  is  —  do  you,  Jack  ? 

I  've  got  all  my  faculties  yet,  sound  and  bright ; 
Slight  failure  my  eyes  are  beginning  to  hint ; 


BALLADS.  63 

But  still,  with  my  spectacles  on,  and  a  light 

'Twixt  them  and  the  page,  I  can  read  any  print. 

My  hearing  is  dull,  and  my  leg  is  more  spare, 
Perhaps,  than  it  was  when  1  beat  you  at  ball ; 

My  breath  gives  out,  too,  if  I  go  up  a  stair, — 
But  nothing  worth  mentioning,  nothing  at  all  ! 

My  hair  is  just  turning  a  little,  you  see, 

And  lately  I  've  put  on  a  broader-brimmed  hat 

Than  I  wore  at  your  wedding,  but  you  will  agree, 
Old  fellow,  I  look  all  the  better  for  that. 

I  'm  sometimes  a  little  rheumatic,  't  is  true, 

And  my  nose  is  n't  quite  on  a  straight  line,  they  say; 

For  all  that,  I  don't  think  I  've  changed  much,  do  you  ? 
And  I  don't  feel  a  day  older,  Jack,  not  a  day. 


APART  from  the  woes  that  are  dead  and  gone, 

And  the  shadow  of  future  care, 
The  heaviest  yoke  of  the  present  hour 

Is  easy  enough  to  bear. 


64  BALLADS. 


THE   SHOEMAKER. 

Now  the  hickory  with  its  hum 

Cheers  the  wild  and  rainy  weather, 

And  the  shoemaker  has  come 

With  his  lapstone,  last,  and  leather. 

With  his  head  as  white  as  wool, 
With  the  wrinkles  getting  bolder, 

And  his  heart  with  news  as  full 
As  the  wallet  on  his  shoulder. 

How  the  children's  hearts  will  beat, 

How  their  eyes  will  shine  with  pleasure 

As  he  sets  their  little  feet, 

Bare  and  rosy,  in  his  measure. 

And  how,  behind  his  chair, 

They  will  steal  grave  looks  to  summon, 
As  he  ties  away  his  hair 

From  his  forehead,  like  a  woman. 

When  he  tells  the  merry  news 

How  their  eyes -will  laugh  and  glisten. 

While  the  mother  binds  the  shoes 
And  they  gather  round  and  listen. 


BALL  A  DS.  65 

But  each  one,  leaning  low 

On  his  lapstone,  will  be  crying, 
As  he  tells  how  little  Jo, 

With  a  broken  back,  is  dying. 

Of  the  way  he  came  to  fall 

In  the  flowery  April  weather, 
Of  the  new  shoes  on  the  wall 

That  are  hanging,  tied  together. 

How  the  face  of  little  Jo 

Has  grown  white,  and  they  who  love  him 
See  the  shadows  come  and  go, 

As  if  angels  flew  above  him. 

And  the  old  shoemaker,  true 

To  the  woe  of  the  disaster, 
Will  uplift  his  apron   blue 

To  his  eyes,  then  work  the  faster. 


66  JJALLADS. 


TO   THE   WIND. 

STEER  hither,  rough  old  mariner, 

Keeping  your  jolly  crew 
Beating  about  in  the  seas  of  life,  — — 

Steer  hither,  and  tell  me  true 
About  my  little  son,   Maximus, 

Who  sailed  away  with  you  I 

Seven  and  twenty  years  ago 
He  came  to  us,  —  ah  me ! 
The  snow  that  fell  that  whistling  night 

O  o 

Was  not  so  pure  as  he, 
And  I  was  rich  enough,  I  trow, 
When  I  took  him  on  my  knee. 

I  was  rich  enough,  and  when  I  met 

A  man,  unthrift  and  lorn, 
Whom  I  a  hundred  times  had  met 

With  less  of  pity  than  scorn, 
I  opened  my  purse,  —  it  was  well  for  him 

That  Maximus  was  born  I 


BALLADS. 

We  have  five  boys  at  home,  erect 

And  straight  of  limb,  and  tall, 
Gentle,  and  loving  all  that  God 

Has  made,  or  great  or  small, 
But  Maximus,  our  youngest  born, 

Was  the  gentlest  of  them  all ! 

Yet  was  he  brave,  —  they  all  are  brave, 

Not  one  for  favor  or  frown 
That  fears  to  set  his  strength  against 

The  bravest  of  the  town, 
But  this,  our  little  Maximus, 

Could  fight  when  he  was  down. 

Six  darling  boys !  not  one  of  all, 

If  we  had  had  to  choose, 
Could  we  have  singled  from  the  rest 

To  sail  on  such  a  cruise, 
But  surely  little  Maximus 

Was  not  the  one  to  lose ! 

His  hair  divided  into  slips, 

And  tumbled  every  way,  — 
His  mother  always  called  them  curls, 

She  has  one  to  this  day,  — 
And  th'  nails  of  his  hands  were  thin  and  red 

As  the  leaves  of  a  rose  in  May. 


68  BALLADS. 

Steer  hither,  rough  mariner,  and  bring 

Some  news  of  our  little  lad, — 
If  he  be  anywhere  out  of  th'  grave 

It  will  make  his  mother  glad, 
Tho'  he  grieved  her  more  with  his  waywardness 

Than  all  the  boys  she  had. 

I  know  it  was  against  himself, 

O  * 

For  he  was  good  and  kind, 
That  he  left  us,  though  he  saw  our  eyes 

With  tears,  for  his  sake,  blind,  — 
O  how  can  you  give  to  such  as  he, 

Your  nature,  wilful  wind  ! 


WHAT  comfort,  when  with  clouds  of  woe 
The  heart  is  burdened,  and  must  weep, 

To  feel  that  pain  must  end, —  to  know, 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

When  in  the  mid-day  march   we  meet 
The  outstretched  shadows  of  the  night, 

The  promise,  how  divinely  sweet, 
"  At  even-time  it  shall  be 


LITTLE    CYRUS. 

EMILY  MAYFIELD  all  the  day 
Sits  and  rocks  her  cradle  alone, 

And  never  a  neighbor  comes  to  say 
How  pretty  little  Cyrus  has  grown. 

Meekly  Emily's  head  is  hung, 

Many  a  sigh  from  her  bosom  breaks, 

And  ne'er  such  pitiful  tune  was  sung 
As  that  her  lowly  lullaby  makes. 


70  BALLADS. 

Near  where  the  village  schoolhouse  stands, 
On  the  grass  by  the  mossy  spring, 

Merry  children  are  linking  hands, 
But  little  Cyrus  is  not  in  the  ring. 

"  They  might  make  room  for  me,  if  they  tried,' 
He  thinks  as  he  listens  to  call  and  shout, 

And  his  eyes  so  pretty  are  open  wide, 
Wondering  why  they  have  left  him  out. 

Nightly  hurrying  home  they  go, 

Each,  of  the  praise  he  has  had,  to  boast 

But  never  an  honor  can  Cyrus  show, 
And  yet  he  studies  his  book  the  most. 

Little  Cyrus  is  out  in  the  hay,  — 

Not  where  the  clover  is  sweet  and  red, 

With  mates  of  his  tender  years  at  play, 
But  where  the  stubble  is  sharp,  instead, 

And  eveiy  flowerless  shrub  and  tree 
That  takes  the  twinkling  noontide  heat. 

O  ' 

Is  dry  and  dusty  as  it  can  be  ; 

There  with  his  tired,  sunburnt  feet 

Dragging  wearily,  Cyrus  goes, 

Trying  to  sing  as  the  others  do, 
But  never  the  stoutest  hand  that  mows 

Says,  "  It  is  work  too  hard  for  you, 


BALLADS.  71 

Little  Cyrus,  your  hands  so  small 

Bleed  with  straining  to  keep  your  place, 

And  the  look  that  says  I  must  bear  it  all 
Is  sadder  than  tears  in  your,  childish  face : 

So  give  me  your  knotty  swath  to  mow, 
And  rest  awhile  on  the  shady  sward, 

Else  your  body  will  crooked  grow, 
Little  Cyrus,  from  working  hard." 

If  he  could  listen  to  words  like  that, 
The  stubble  would  not  be  half  so  rough 

To  his  naked  feet,  and  his  ragged  hat 

Would  shield  him  from  sunshine  well  enough. 

But  ne'er  a  moment  the  mowers  .check 

Song  or  whistle,  to  think  of  him, 
With  blisters  burning  over  his  neck, 

Under  his  straw  hat's  ragged  brim. 

So,  stooping  over  the  field  he  goes, 

With  none  to  pity  if  he  complain, 
And  so  the  crook  in  his  body  grows, 

And  he  never  can  stand  up  straight  again. 

The  cattle  lie  down  in  the  lane  so  still, — 
The  scythes  in  the  apple-tree  shine  bright, 

And  Cyrus  sits  on  the  ashen  sill 

Watching  the  motes,  in  the  streaks  of  light, 


72  BALLADS. 

Quietly  slanting  out  of  the  sky, 

Over  the  hill  to  the  porch  so  low, 
Wondering  if  in  the  world  on  high 

There  will  be.  any  briery  fields  to  mow. 

Emily  Mayfield,  pale  and  weak, 

Steals  to  his  side  in  the  light  so  dim, 
.  And  the  single  rose  in  his  swarthy  cheek 

Grows  double,  the  while  she  says  to  him, — 

Little  Cyrus,  't  is  many  a  day 

Since  one  with  just  your  own  sweet  eyes, 
And  a  voice  as  rich  as  a  bird's  in  May, 

(Gently  she  kisses  the  boy  and  sighs,) 

Here  on  the. porch  when  the  work  was  done, 
Sat  with  a  young  girl,  (not  like  me,) 

Her  heart  was  light  as  the  wool  she  spun, 
And  her  laughter  merry  as  it  could  be; 

Her  hair  was  silken,  he  used  to  say, 

When  they  sat  on  the  porch-side,  "  woful  when,' 

And  I  know  the  clover  you  mowed  to-day 

Was  not  more  red  than  her  cheeks  were  then. 

He  told  her  many  a  story  wild, 

Like  this,  perhaps,  which  I  tell  to  you, 

And  she  was  a  woman  less  than  child, 
And  thought  whatever  he  said  was  true. 


BALLADS.  73 

From  home  and  kindred,  —  ah  me,  ah  me! 

With  only  her  faith  in  his  love, 'she  fled, 
'T  was  all  like  a  dreaming,  and  when  she  could  see 

She  owned  she  w?,s  sinful  and  prayed  to  be  dead. 

But  always,  luwever  long  she  may  live, 

Desolate,  desolate,  she  shall  repine, 
And  so  with  no  love  to  receive  or  to  give, 

O  * 

Her  face  is  as  sad  and  as  wrinkled  as  mine. 

Little  Cyrus,  trembling,  lays 

His  head  on  his  mother's  knee  to  cry, 

And  kissing  his  sunburnt  cheek,  she  says, 
"  Hush,  my  darling,  it  was  not  I." 


OUR  God  is  love,  and  that  which  we  miscall 
Evil,  in  this  good  world  that  He  has  made, 
Is  meai.t  to  be  a  little  tender  shade 

Between  us  and  His  glory,  —  that  is  all ; 

And  he  who  loves  the  best  his  fellow  man 

Is  loving  God,  the  holiest  way  he  can. 

10 


74  BALLADS. 


MORNING. 

WAKE,  Dillie,  my  darling,  and  kiss  me, 

The  daybreak  is  nigh,  — 
I  can  see,  through  tiie  half-open  curtain, 

A  strip  of  blue   sky. 

Yon  lake,  in  her  valley-bed  lying, 

Looks  fair  as  a  bride, 
And  pushes,  to  greet  the  sun's  coming, 

The  mist  sheets  aside. 

The  birds,  to  the  wood-temple  flying, 

Their  matins  to  chant, 
Are  chirping  their  love  to  each  other, 

With  wings  dropt  aslant. 

Not  a  tree,  that  the  morning's  bright  edges 

With  silver  illumes, 
But  trembles  and  stirs  with  its  pleasure 

Through  all  its  green  plumes. 

Wake,  Dillie,  and  join  in  the  praises 

All  nature  doth  give  ; 
Clap  hands,  and  rejoice  in  the  goodness 

That  leaves  you  to  live. 


BALLADS. 

For  what  is  the  world  in  her  glory 

To  that  which  thou  art  ? 
Thank  God  for  the  soul  that  is  in  you, — 

Thank  God  for  your  heart ! 

The  world  that  had  never  a  lover 

Her  bright  face  to  kiss, — 
With  her  splendors 'of  stars  and  of  noontides 

How  poor  is  her  bliss  ! 

Wake,  Dillie,  —  the  white  vest  of  morning 

With  crimson  is  laced  ; 
And  why  should  delights  of  God's  giving 

Be  running  to  waste  ! 

Full  measures,  pressed  down,  are  awaiting 

Our  provident  use ; 
And  is  there  no  sin  in  neglecting 

As  well  as  abuse  ? 

The  cornstalk  exults  in  its  tassel, 

The  flint  in  its  spark, — 
And  shall  the  seed  planted  within  me 

Rot  out  in  the  dark  ? 

Shall  I  be  ashamed  to  give  culture 

To  what  God  has  sown  ? 
When  nature  asks  bread,  shall  I  offer 

A  serpent,  or  stone  ? 


76  BALLADS. 

For  could  I  out-weary  its  yearnings 

By  fasting,  or  pain,  — 
Would  life  have  a  better  fulfilment, 

Or  death  have  a  gain  ? 

O 

Nay,  God  will  not  leave  us  unanswered 

In  any  true  need  ; 
His  will  may  be  writ  in  an  instinct, 

As  well  as  a  creed. 

And,  Dillie,  my  darling,  believe  me, 

That  life  is  the  best, 
That,  loving  here,  truly  and  sweetly, 

With  Him  leaves  the  rest. 

Its  head  to  the  sweep  of  the  whirlwind 

The  wise  willow  suits, — 
While  the  oak,  that  's  too  stubborn  for  bending, 

Comes  up  by  the  roots. 

Such  lessons,  each  day,  round  about  us, 

Our  good  Mother  writes,  — 
To  show  us  that  Nature,  in  some  way, 

Avenges  her  slights. 


BALLADS.  77 


THE    SUMMER   STORM. 

AT  noon-time  1  stood  in  the   door-way  to  see 
The  spots,  burnt  like  blisters,  as  white  as  could  be, 
Along  the  near  meadow,  shoved  in  like  a  wedge 
Betwixt  the  high-road,  and  the  stubble-land's  edge. 

The  leaves  of  the  elm-tree  were  dusty  and  brown, 
The  birds  sat  with  shut  eyes  and  wings  hanging  down 
The  corn  reached  its  blades  out,  as  if  in  the  pain 
Of  crisping  and  scorching  it  felt  for  the  rain. 

Their  meek  faces  turning  away  from  the  sun, 
The  cows  waded  up  to  their  flanks  in  the  run, 
The  sheep,  so  herd-loving,  divided  their  flocks, 
And  singly  lay  down  by  the  sides  of  the  rocks. 

At  sunset  there  rose  and  stood  black  in  the  east 
A  cloud  with  the  forehead  and  horns  of  a  beast, 
That  quick  to  the  zenith  went  higher  and  higher, 
With  feet  that  were  thunder  and  eyes  that  were  fire. 

Then  came  a  hot  sough,  like  a  gust  of  his  breath, 
And  the  leaves  took  the  tremble  and  whiteness  of  death, — 
The  dog,  to  his  master,  from  kennel  and  kin, 
Came  whining  and  shaking,  with  back  crouching  in. 


78  BALLADS. 

At  twilight  the  darkness  was  fearful  to  see : 

"Make  room,"  cried  the  children,  "O  mother,  for  me!" 

As  climbing  her  chair  and  Jjer  lap,  with  alarm, 

And  whisper,  —  "  Was  ever  there  seen  such  a  storm !  " 

At  morning,  the  run  where  the  cows  cooled  their  flanks 
Had  washed  up  a  hedge  of  white  roots  from  its  banks ; 
The  turnpike  was  left  a  blue  streak,  and  each  side 
The  gutters  like  rivers  ran  muddy  and  wide. 

The  barefooted  lad  started  merry  to  school, 

And  the  way  was  the  nearest  that  led  through  the  pool  ; 

The  red-bird  wore  never  so  shining  a  coat, 

Nor  the  pigeon  so  glossy  a  ring  on  her  throat. 

The  teamster  sat  straight  in  his  place,  for  the  nonce, 
And  sang  to  his  sweetheart  and  team,  both  at  once ; 
And  neighbors  shook  hands  o'er  the  fences  that  day, 
And  talked  of  their  homesteads  instead  of  their  hay. 


BALLADS.  79 


IF   AND   IF. 

IF  I  were  a  painter,  I  could  paint 
The  dwarfed  and  straggling  wood, 

And  the  hillside  where  the  meeting-house 
With  the  wooden  belfry  stood, 

A  dozen  steps  from  the  door,  —  alone, 

On  four  square  pillars  of  rough  gray  stone. 

We  schoolboys  used  to  write  our  names 

With  our  finger-tips  each  day 
In  th'  dust  o'  th'  cross-beams,  —  once  it  shone, 

1  have  heard  the  old  folks  say, 
(Praising  the  time  past,  as  old  folks  will,) 
Like  a  pillar  o'  fire  on  the  side  o'  thr  hill. 

I  could  paint  the  lonesome  lime-kilns, 
And  the  lime-burners,  wild  and  proud, 

Their  red  sleeves  gleaming  in  the  smoke 
Like  a  rainbow  in  a  cloud, — 

Their  huts  by  the  brook,  and  their  mimicking  crew 

Making  believe  to  be  lime-burners  too ! 


80  BALLADS. 

I  could  paint  the  brawny  wood-cutter, 

With  the  patches  at  his  knees,  — 
He  's  been  asleep  these  twenty  years, 

Among  his  friends,  the  trees : 
The  day  that  he  died,  the  best  oak  o'  the  wood 
Came  up  by  the  roots,  and  he  lies  where  it  stood. 

I  could  paint  the  blacksmith's  dingy  shop,  — 

Its  sign,  a  pillar  of  smoke  ; 
The  farm-horse  halt,  the  rou<di-haired  colt, 

'  ~  7 

And  the  jade  with  her  neck  in  a  yoke ; 
The  pony  that  made  to  himself  a  law, 
And  would  n't  go  under  the  saddle,  nor  draw  ! 

The  poor  old  mare  at  the  door-post, 

With  joints  as  stiff  as  its  pegs,  — 
Her  one  white  eye,  and  her  neck  awry,  — 

Trembling  the  flies  from  her  legs, 
And  the  thriftless  farmer  that  used  to  stand 
And  curry  her  ribs  with  a  kindly  hand. 

I  could  paint  his  quaint  old-fashioned  house, 
With  its  windows,  square  and  small, 

And  the  seams  of  clay  running  every  way 
Between  the  stones  o'  the  wall : 

The  roof,  with  furrows  of  mosses  green, 

And  new  bright  shingles  set  between. 


BALLADS.  81 

The  oven,  bulging  big  behind, 

And  the  narrow  porch  before, 
And  the  weather-cock  for  ornament 

On  the  pole  beside  the  door  ; 
And  th'  row  of  milk-pans,  shining  bright 
As  silver,  in  the  summer  light. 


And  I  could  paint  his  girls  and  boys, 

Each  and  every  one, 
Hepzibah  sweet,  with  her  little  bare  feet, 

And  Shubal,  the  stalwart  son, 
And  wife  and  mother,  with  home-spun  gown, 
And  roses  be£rinnin<r  to  shade  into  brown. 


I  could  paint  the  garden,  with  its  paths 
Cut  smooth,  and  running  straight,  — 

The  gray  sage  bed,  the  poppies  red, 
And  the  lady-grass  at  the  gate,  — 

The  black  warped  slab  with  its  hive  of  bees, 

In  the  corner,  under  the  apple-trees. 

I  could  paint  the  fields,  in  the  middle  hush 

Of  winter,  bleak  and  bare, 
Some  snow  like  a  lamb  that  is  caught  in  a  bush, 

Hanging  here  and  there, — 
The  mildewed  haystacks,  all  a-lop, 
And  the  old  dead  stub  with  the  crow  at  the  top. 
11 


82  BALLADS. 

The  cow,  with  a  board  across  her  eyes, 

And  her  udder  dry  as  dust, 
Her  hide  so  brown,  her  horn  turned  down, 

And  her  nose  the  color  of  rust,  — 
The  walnut-tree  so  stiff  and  high, 
With  its  black  bark  twisted  all  awry. 

The  hillside,  and  the  small  spac^  set 

With  broken  palings  round,  — 
The  long  loose  grass,  and  the  little  grave 

With  the  head-stone  on  the  ground, 
.    And  the  willow,  like  the  spirit  of  grace 
Bending  tenderly  over  the  place. 

The  miller's  face,  half  smile,  half  frown, 

Were  a  picture  I  could  paint, 
And  the  mill,  with  gable  steep  and  brown, 

And  dripping  wheel  aslant, — 
The  weather-beaten  door,  set  wide, 
And  the  heaps  of  meal-bags  either  side. 

The  timbers  cracked  to  gaping  seams, 

The  swallows'  clay-built  nests, 
And  the  rows  of  doves  that  sit  on  the  beams 

With  plump  and  glossy  breasts, — 
The  bear  by  his  post  sitting  upright  to  eat, 
With  half  of  his  clumsy  legs  in  his  feet. 


BALLADS.  8 

I  could  paint  the  mill-stream,  cut  in  two 

By  the  heat  o'  the  summer  skies, 
And  the  sand-bar,  with  its  long  brown  back, 

And  round  and  bubbly  eyes, 

And  the  bridge,  that  hung  so  high  o'er  the  tide, 
Creaking  and  swinging  from  side  to  side. 

The  miller's  pretty  little  wife, 

In  the  cottage  that  she  loves, — 
Her  hand  so  white,  and  her  step  so  light, 

And  her  eyes  as  brown  as  th'  dove's, 
Her  tiny  waist,  and  belt  of  blue, 
And  her  hair  that  almost  dazzles  you. 

I  could  paint  the  White-Hawk  tavern,  flanked 
With  broken  and  wind-warped  sheds, 

And  the  rock  where  the  black  clouds  used  to  sit, 
And  trim  their  watery  heads 

With  little  sprinkles  of  shining  light, 

Night  and  morning,  morning  and  night. 

The  road,  where  slow  and  wearily, 

The  dusty  teamster  came,  — 
The  sign  on  its  post  and  the  round-faced  host, 

And  the  high  arched  door,  aflame 
With  trumpet-flowers,  —  the  well-sweep,  high, 
And  the  flowing  water-trough,  close  by. 


84  SALT.  ADS. 

If  I  were  a  painter,  and  if  my  hand 

Were  cunning,  as  it  is  not, 
I  could  paint  you  a  picture  that  would  stand 

When  all  the  rest  were  forgot ; 
But  why  should  I  tell  you  what  it  would  be  ? 
I  never  shall  paint  it,  nor  you  ever  see. 


WE  are  the  mariners,  and  God  the  Sea, 

And  though  we  make  false  reckonings,  and  run 

Wide  of  a  righteous  course,  and  are  undone, 
Out  of  his  deeps  of  love,  we  cannot  be. 

For  by  those  heavy  strokes  we  misname  ill, 

Through  the  fierce  fire  of  sin,  through  tempering  doubt. 

Our  natures  more  and  more  are  beaten  out 
To  perfecter  reflections  of  His  will  I 


AN   ORDER   FOR  A   PICTURE. 

O  GOOD  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw  ? 

Ay  ?     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields,  a  little  brown,  — 
The  picture  must  not  be  over-bright, — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 
Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 
Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 
Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full,   thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing-room 

Under  their  tassels,  —  cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach   and  sassafras, 


86  BALLADS. 

With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,  — 

(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound  !)  — 

These,  and  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children,   many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide, ' — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush : 

Perhaps  you  may  have  seen,  some  day, 

Roses  crowding  the  self-same  way, 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 

Listen  closer.     When  you  have  done 

With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 

A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  upon  you  must  paint  for  me  : 
Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace, 
The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face 

That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while, 
I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words  : 

Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say,  — 
She  is  my  mother :  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  paint,  sir :  one  like  me,  — 
The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 


BALLADS.  87 

And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 

Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise  : 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea,  — 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now,  — 

He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  "Commodore,"  — 
Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 
To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 

Ah,  'tis  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

With  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck : 

I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 
Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown, 

The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee : 
That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 

Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea  ! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 

We  were  together,  half  afraid 

Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 

Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  still  and  far,  — 
Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 

Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open  door, 
And  over  the  hay-stack's  pointed  top, 
All  of  a  tremble  and  ready  to  drop, 

The  first  half-hour,  the  great  yellow  star, 

That  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes, 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 

Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 


88  BALLADS. 

By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry-tree, 

Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  flax-field  grew,  — 
Dead  at  the  top, — just  one  branch  full 
Of  leaves,  notched  round,  and  lined  with   wool, 

From  Avhich  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 
Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  handbreadth  of  shadow,  day  after  day. 

Afraid  to  go  home,  Sir  ;    for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled  eggs, — 
The  other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs, 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat : 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  wouldn't  eat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 

Do  you  think,  Sir,  if  you  try, 

You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie  ? 

If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 

To  put  it  solely  in  the  face 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me  : 

I  think  't  was  solely  mine,  indeed : 

But  that's  no  matter,  —  paint  it  so  ; 

The  eyes  of  our  mother  —  (take  good  heed)  — 
Looking  not  on  the  nest-full  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  legs, 
But  straight  through  our  faces  down   to  our  lies, 
And,  oh,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surprise  ! 

I  felt  my  heart  bleed  where  that  glance  went,  as  though 

A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it. 


BALLADS. 


89 


You,  Sir,  know 

That  you  on  the  canvas  are  to  repeat 
Things  that  are  fairest,  things  most  sweet, — 
Woods  and  cornfields  and  mulberry-tree, — 
The  mother,  —  the  lads,  with  their  bird,  at  her  knee  : 

But,  oh,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe  ! 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I'll  shout, 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave  that  out. 


12 


/:• 


90  BALLADS. 


FIFTEEN   AND    FIFTY. 

COME,  darling,  put  your  frown  aside  ! 

I  own  my  fault,  'tis  true,  'tis  true, 
There  is  one  picture  that  I  hide, 

Even  away  from  you  ! 

Why,  then,  I  do  not  love  you  ?     Nay, 
You  wrong  me  there,  my  pretty  one  : 

Remember  you  are  in  your  May  ; 
My  Summer  days  are  done. 

My  autumn  days  are  come,  in  truth, 
And  blighting  frosts  begin  to  fall ; 

You  are  the  sunny  light  of  youth, 
That  glorifies  it  all. 

Even  when  winter  clouds  shall  break 
In  storms,  I  shall  not  mind,  my  de:  r, 

For  you  within  my  heart  shall  make 
The  springtime  of  the  year! 

In  short,  life  did  its  best  for  me, 
When  first  our  paths  together  ran  ; 

But  I  had  lived,  you  will  agree, 
One  life,  ere  yours  began. 


BALLADS.  91 

I  must  have  smiled,  I  must  have  wept, 
Ere  mirth  or  moan  could  do  you  wrong ; 

But  come,  and  see  the  picture,  kept 
Hidden  away  so  long ! 

The  walk  will  not  be  strange  nor  far,  — 
Across  the  meadow,  toward  the  tree 

From  whose  thick  top  one  silver  star 
Uplifting  slow,  you  see. 

So,  darling,  we  have  gained  the  height 
Where  lights  and  shadows  softly  meet ; 

Rest  you  a  moment, — full  in  sight, 
My  picture  lies  complete. 

A  hill-side  dark,  with  "woods  behind, 
A  strip  of  emerald  grass  before,  — 

A  homely  house  ;    some  trees  that  blind 
Window,  and  wall,  and  door. 

A  singing  streamlet,  —  either  side 

Bordered  with  flowers,  —  geraniums  gay, 

And  pinks,  with  red  mouths  open. wide 
For  sunshine,  all  the  day. 

A  tasselled  cornfield  on  one  hand, 
And  on  the  other,  meadows  green, 

With  angles  of  bright  harvest  bend 
Wedged  sunnily  between. 


BALLADS. 

A  world  of  smiling  ways  and  walks, 

The  hop-vines  twisting  through  the  pales, 

The  crimson  cups  o'  the  hollyhocks, 
The  lilies,  in  white  veils  ; 

The  porch  with  morning-glories  gay, 
And  sunken  step,  the  well-sweep  tall, 

The  barn,   with  roof  'twixt  black  and  gray, 
And  warpt,  wind-shaken  wall  ; 

The  garden  with  the  fence  of  stone, 
The  lane  so  dusky  at  the  close, 

The  door-yard  gate  all  overgrown 
With  one  wild  smothering  rose ; 

The  honeysuckle  that  has  blown 
His  trumpet  till  his  throat  is  red, 

And  the  wild  swallow,  mateless  flown 
Under  the  lonesome  shed; 

The  corn,  with  bean-pods  showing  through* 
The  fields  that  to  the  sunset  lean, 

The  crooked  paths  along  the  dew, 
Telling  of  flocks  unseen. 

The  bird  in  scarlet-colored  coat 

Flying  about  the  apple-tree  ; 
The  new  moon  in  her  shallow  boat, 

Sailing  alone,  you  see  ; 


BALLADS.  93 

The  aspen  at  the  window-pane,  — 

The  pair  of  bluebirds  on  the  peach,  — 

The  yellow  waves  of  ripening  grain,  — 
You  see  them  all  and  each. 

The  shadows  stretching  to  the  door, 
From  far-off  hills,  and  nearer  trees  ; 

I  cannot  show  you  any  more,  — 
The  landscape  holds  but  these. 

And  yet,  my  darling,  after  all, 

'Tis  not  my  picture  you  behold  ; 
Your  house  is  ruined  near  to  fall,  — 

Your  flowers  are  dew  and  mould. 

J  wish  that  you  could  only  see, 

While  the  glad  garden  shines  its  best, 

The  little  rose  that  was  to  me 
The  queen  of  all  the  rest. 

The  bluebirds,  —  he  with  scarlet  wings, — 

The  silver  brook,  the  sunset  glow, 
To  me  are  but  the  signs  of  things 

The  landscape  cannot  show. 

That  old  house  was  our  home  —  not  ours ! 

You  were  not  born  —  how  could  it  be  ? 
That  window  where  you  see  the  flowers, 

Is  where  she  watched  for  me, 


94  BALLADS. 

So  pale,  so  patient,  night  by  night, 
Her  eyes  upon  this  pathway  here, 

Until  at  last  I  came  in  sight,  — 
Nay,  do  not  frown,  my  dear, 

That  was  another  world !    and  so 
Between  us  there  can  be  no  strife  ; 

I  was  but  twenty,  you  must  know, 
And  she  my  baby-wife  ! 

Twin  violets  by  a  shady  brook 

Were  like  her  eyes,  —  their  beauteousness 
Was  in  a  rainy,  moonlight  look 

Of  tears  and  tenderness. 

Her  fingers  had  a  dewy  touch  ; 

Grace  was  in  all  her  modest  ways  ; 
Forgive  my  praising  her  so  much,  — 

She  cannot  hear  my  praise. 

Beneath  the  window  where  you  see 

The  trembling,  tearful  flowers,  she  lay, 

Her  arms  as  if  they  reached  for  me,  — 
Her  hair  put  smooth  away. 

The  closed  mouth  still  smiling  sweet, 
The  waxen  eyelids,  drooping  low, 

The  marriage-slippers  on  the  feet,  — 
The  marriage-dress  of  Snow  ! 


BALLADS.  95 

And  still,  as  in  my  dreams,  I  do, 

I  kiss  the  sweet  white  hands,  the  eyes  ; 

My  heart  with  pain  is  broken  anew, 
My  soul  with  sorrow  dies. 

It  was,  they  said,  her  spirit's  birth,  — 

That  she  was  gone,  a  saint  to  be  ; 
Alas  !    a  poor,  pale  piece  of  earth 

Was  all  that  I  could  see. 

In  tears,  my  darling  !    that  fair  brow 

With  jealous  shadows  overrun  ? 
A  score  of  flowers  upon  one  bough 

May  bloom  as  well  as  one  ! 

This  ragged  bush,  from  spring  to  fall, 

Stands  here  with  living  glories  lit; 
And  every  flower  a-blush,  with  all 

That  doth  belong  to  it ! 

Look  on  it !    learn  the  lesson  then,  — 

No  more   than  we   evoke,  is  ours  ! 
The  great  law  holdeth  good  with  men, 

The  same  as  with  the  flowers. 

And  if  that  lost,  that  sweet  white  hand 
Had  never  blessed  me  with  its  light, 

You  had  not  been,  you  understand, 
More  than  you  are  to-night. 


96  BALLADS. 

This  foolish  pride  that  women  have 
To  play  upon  us,  —  to  enthrall, 

To  absorb,  doth  hinder  what  they  crave,  - 
Their  being  loved  at  all  ! 

Never  the  mistress  of  the  arts 
They  practise  on  us,  still  again 

And  o'er  again,  they  wring  our  hearts 
With  pain  that  giveth  pain  1 

They  make  their  tyranny  a  boast, 
And  in  their  petulance  will  not  see 

That  he  is  always  bound  the  most, 
Who  in  the  most  is  free  1 

They  prize  us  more  for  what  they  screen 
From  censure,  than  for  what  is  best ; 

And  you,  my  darling,  at  fifteen, 
Why,  you  are  like  the  rest ! 

Your  arms  would  find  me  now,  though  I 
Were  low  as  ever  guilt  can  fall ; 

And  that,  my  little  love,  is  why 
I  love  you,  after  all ! 

Smiling  !    "  the  pain  is  worth  the  cost, 
That  wins  a  homily  so  wise  ? " 

Ah,  little  tyrant,  I  am  lost, 
When  thus  you   tyrannize. 


BALLADS. 


JENNY  DUNLEATH. 

JEXNY  DUXLEATH  coming  back  to  the  town  ? 

What !  coming  back  here  for  good,  and  for  all  ? 

Well,  that  's  the  last  thing  for  Jenny  to  do,  — 

I  'd  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  —  would  n't  you  ? 

Before  I  'd  come  back !     She  '11  be  pushed  to  the  wall, 

Some  slips,  I  can  tell  her,  are  never  lived  down, 

And  she  ought  to  know  it.     It  's  really  true, 

You  think,  that  she  's  coming?     How  dreadfully  bold! 

But  one  don't  know  what  will  be  done,  nowadays, 

And  Jenny  was  never  the  girl  to  be  moved 

By  what  the  world  said  of  her.     What  she  approved, 

She  would  do,  in  despite  of  its  blame  or  its  praise. 

She  ought  to  be  wiser  by  this  time  —  let's  see; 
Why,  sure  as  you  live,  she  is  forty  years  old ! 
The  day  I  was  married  she  stood  up  with  me, 
And  my  Kate  is  twenty :  ah  yes,  it  must  be 
That  Jenny  is  forty,  at  least  —  forty-three, 
It  may  be,  or  four.     She  was  older,  I  know, 
A  good  deal,  when  she  was  my  bridesmaid,  than  I, 
And  that  's  twenty  years,  now,  and  longer,  ago  ; 
So  if  she  intends  to  come  back  and  deny 
13 


98  BALLADS. 

Her  age,  as  't  is  likely  she  will,  I  can  show 
The  plain  honest  truth,  by  the  age  of  my  Kate, 
And  I  will,  too !     To  see  an  old  maid  tell  a  lie, 
Just  to  seem  to  be  young,  is  a  thing  that  I  hate. 

Yon  thought  we  were  friends  ?     No,  my  dear,  not  at  all ! 

'T  is  true  we  were  friendly,  as  friendliness  goes, 

But  one   o-ets  one's  friends  as  one  chooses  one's   clothes, 

'O  * 

And  just  as  the  fashion  goes  out,  lets  them  fall. 

I  will  not  deny  we  were  often  together 

About  the  time  Jenny  was  in  her  high  feather ; 

And  she  was  a  beauty  !     No  rose  of  the  May 

Looked  ever  so  lovely  as  she  on  the  day 

I  was  married.     She,  somehow,  could  grace 

Whatever  thing  touched  her.     The  knots  of  soft  lace 

-On  her  little  white  shoes,  —  the  gay  cap  that  half  hid 

Her  womanly  forehead,  —  the  bright  hair  that  slid 

Like  sunshine  adown  her  bare  shoulders,  —  the  gauze 

That  rippled  about  her  sweet  arms,  just  because 

'T  was  Jenny  that  wore  it, —  the  flower  in  her  belt, — 

No  matter  what  color,  't  was  fittest,  you  felt. 

If  she  sighed,  if  she  smiled,  if  she  played  with  her  fan, 

A  sort  of  religious  coquettishness  ran 

Through  it  all,  —  a  bewitching  and  wildering  way, 

All  tearfully  tender  and  graciously  gay. 

If  e'er  you  were  foolish  in  word  or  in  speech, 

The  approval  she  gave  with  her  serious  eyes 

Would  make  your  own  foolishness  seem  to  you  wise ; 

So  all  from  her  magical  presence,  and  each, 


n  ALL  ADS.  99 

t 

Went  happy  away :  't  was  her  art  to  confer 
A  self-love,  that  ended  in  your  loving  her. 

And  so  she  is  coming  back  here !  a  mishap 

To  her  friends,  if  she  have  any  friends,  one  would  say 

Well,  well,  she  can't  take  her  old  place  in  the  lap 

Of  holiday  fortune  :  her  head  must  be  gray ; 

And  those  dazzling  cheeks !     I  would  just  like  to  see 

How  she  looks,  if  I  could,  without  her  seeing  me. 

To  think  of  the  Jenny  Dunleath  that  I  knew, 
A  dreary  old  maid,   with  nobody  to  love  her, — 
Her  hair  silver-white  and  no  roof-tree  above  her, — 
One  ought  to  have  pity  upon  her,  —  't  is  true ! 
But  I  never  liked  her;  in  truth,  I  was  glad 
In  my  own  secret  heart  when  she  came  to  her  fall ; 
When  praise  of  her  meekness   was  ringing  the  loudest 
I  always  would  say  she  was  proud  as  the  proudest ; 
That  meekness  was  only  a  trick  that  she  had, — 
She  was  too  proud  to  seem  to  be  proud,  that  was  all. 

She  stood  up  with  me,  I  was  saying  :   that  day 
Was  the  last  of  her  going  abroad  for  long  years; 
I  never  had  seen  her  so  bright  and  so  gay, 
Yet,  spite  of  the  lightness,  I  had  my  own  fears 
That  all  was  not  well  with  her :  't  was  but  her  pride 
Made    her  sing    the  old   songs  when   they  asked   her   to 

sing, 
For  when  it  was  done  with,  and  we  were  aside, 


JOO 


A  look  wan  and  weary  came  over  her  brow, 

And  still  I  can  feel  just  as  if  it  were  now, 

How  she  slipped  up  and  down  on  my  finger,  the  ring, 

And  so  hid  her  face  in  my  bosom  and  cried. 

When  the  fiddlers  were  come,  and  young  Archibald  Mill 
Was  dancing  with  Hetty,  I  saw  how  it  was  ; 
Nor  was  I  misled  when  she  said  she  was  ill, 
For  the  dews  were  not  standing  so  thick  in  the  grass 
As  the  drops  on  her  cheeks.     So  you  never  have   heard 
How  she  fell  in  disgrace  with  young  Archibald  !     No  ? 
I  won't  be  the  first,  then,  to  whisper  a  word, — 
Poor  thing !  if  she  only  repent,  let  it  go ! 

Let  it  go!  let  what  go?     My  good  madam,  I  pray, 

Whereof  do  I  stand  here  accused  ?     I  would  know,  — 

I  am  Jenny  Dunleath,  that  you  knew  long  ago, 

A  dreary  old  maid,  and  unloved,  as  you  say: 

God  keep  you,  my  sister,  from  knowing  such  woe ! 

Forty  years  old,  madam,  that  I  agree, 

The  roses  washed  out  of  my  cheeks  by  the  tears ; 

And  counting  my  barren  and  desolate  years 

By  the  bright  little  heads  dropping  over  your  knee, 

You  look  on  my  sorrow  with  scorn,  it  appears. 

Well,  smile,  if  you  can,  as  you  hold  up  in  sight 
Your  matronly  honors,  for  all  men  to  see ; 
But  I  cannot  discern,  madam,  what  there  can  be 
To  move  your  proud  mirth,  in  the  wildness  of  night 


BALLADS.  101 

Falling  round  me  ;  no  hearth  for  my  coming  alight,  — 
No  rosy-red  cheeks  at  the  windows  for  me. 

My  love  is  my  shame,  —  in  your  love  you  are  crowned,  — 

But  as  we  are  women,  our  natures  are  one  ; 

By  need  of  its  nature,  the  dew  and  the  sun 

Belong  to  the  poorest,  pale  flower  o'  the  ground. 

And  think  you  that  He  who  created  the  heart 

Has  struck  it  all  helpless  and  hopeless  apart 

From  these  lesser  works  ?     Nay,  I  hold  He  has  bound 

Our  rights  with  our  needs  in  so  sacred  a  knot, 

We  cannot  undo  ihem  with  any  mere  lie; 

Nay,  more,  my  proud  lady,  —  the  love  you  have  got, 

May  belong  to  another  as  dreary  as  I  ! 

You  have  all  the  world's  recognition, — your  bond, — 

But  have  you  that  better  right,  lying  beyond?  — 

Agreement  with  Conscience?  —  that  sanction  whereby 

You  can  live  in  the  face  of  the  cruelest  scorns? 

Ay,  set  your  bare  bosom  against  the  sharp  thorns 

Of  jealousy,  hatred,  —  against  all  the  harms 

Bad  fortune  can  gather,  —  and  say,  With  these  arms 

About  me,  I  stand  here  to  live  and  to  die ! 

I  take  yon  to  keep  for  my  patron  and  saint, 

And  you  shall  be  bound  by  that  sweetest  constraint 

Of  a  liberty  wide  as  the  love  that  you  give  ; 

And  so  to  the  glory  of  God  we  will  live, 

Through    health    and    through    sickness,    dear   lover   and 

friend, 
Through    light    and    through   darkness,  —  through  all,  tc 

the  end ! 


102  BALLADS. 

Let  it  go  !     Let  what  go  ?     Make  me  answer,  I  pray. 
You  were  speaking  just  now  of  some  terrible  fall,  — 
My  love  for  young  Archibald  Mill,  —  is  that  all? 
I  loved  him   with  all  my  young  heart,  as  you  say,  — 
Nay,  what  is  more,  madam,  I  love  him  to-day,  — 
My  cheeks  thin  and  wan,  and  my  hair  gray  on  gray ! 
And  so  I  am  bold  to  come  back  to  the  town, 
In  hope  that  at  last  I  may  lay  my  bones  down, 
And  have  the  green  grasses  blow  over  my  face, 
Among  the  old  hills  where  my  love  had  its  birth  ! 
If  love  were  a  trifle,  the  morning  to  grace, 
And    fade    when    the    night   came,    why,    what    were    it 
worth  ? 

He  is  married !    and  I  am  come  hither  too  late  ? 

Your  vision  misleads  you,  —  so  pray  you,  untie 

That  knot  from  your  sweet  brow, — I  come  here  to  die, 

And  not  to  make  moan  for  the  chances  of  fate  ! 

I  know  that  all  love  that  is  true  is  divine, 

And  when  this  low  incident,  Time,  shall  have  sped, 

I  know  the  desire  of  my  soul  shall  be  mine,  — 

That,  weary,  or  wounded,  or  dying,  or  dead, 

The  end  is  secure,  so  I  bear  the  estate  — 

Despised  of  the  world's  favored  women  —  and  wait. 


BALLADS.  103 


THICKSET'S    RING. 

0  WHAT  a  clay  it  was  to  us,  — 
My  wits  were  upside  clown, 

When  cousin  Joseph  Nicholas 
Came  visiting  from  town  ! 

His  curls  they  were  so  smooth  and  bright, 
His  frills  they  were  so  fine, 

1  thought  perhaps  the  stars  that  night 
Would  be  ashamed  to  shine. 

But  when  the  clews  had  touched  the  grass, 
They  came  out,  large  and  small, 

As  if  our  cousin  Nicholas 
Had  not  been  there  at  all  I 

Our  old  house  never  seemed  to  me 

So  poor  and  mean  a  thing 
As  then,  and  just  because  that  he 

Was  come  a-visitino; ! 

O 

I  never  thought  the  sun  prolonged 

His  light  a  single  whit 
Too  much,  till  then,  nor  thought  he  wronged 

My  face,  by  kissing  it. 


104  BALLADS. 

But  now  I  sought  tr>  pull  my  dress 

Of  faded  homespun  down, 
Because  my  cousin  Nicholas 

Would  see  my  feet  were  brown. 

The  butterflies  —  bright  airy  things  — 

From  off  the  lilac  buds 
1  scared,  for  having  on  their  wings 

The  shadows  of  the  woods. 

I  thought  my  straight  and  jet  black  hair 

Was  almost  a  disgrace, 
Since  Joseph  Nicholas  had  fair 

Smooth  curls  about  his  face. 

I  wished  our  rosy  window  sprays 
Were  laces,  dropping  down, 

That  he  might  think  we  knew  the  ways 
Of  rich  folks  in  the  town. 

I  wished  the  twittering  swallow  had 

A  finer  tune  to  sing, 
Since  such  a  stylish  city  lad 

Was  come  a-visiting. 

I  wished  the  hedges,  as  they  swayed, 

Were  each  a  solid  wall, 
And  that  our  grassy  lane  were  made 

A  market  street  withal. 


BALLADS.  105 

I  wished  the  drooping  heads  of  rye, 

Set  full  of  silver  dews, 
Were  silken  tassels  all  to  tie 

The  ribbons  of  his  shoes  ! 

And  when,  by  homely  household  slight, 

They  called  me  Tricksey  True, 
I   thought  my  cheeks  would  blaze,  in  spite 

Of  all  that  I  could  do. 

Tricksey  !  —  that  name  would  surely  be 

A  shock  to  ears  polite  ; 
In  short  I  thought  that  nothing  we 

Could  say  or  do  was  right. 

For  injured  pride  I  could  have  wept, 

Until  my  heart  and  I 
Fell  musing  how  my  mother  kept 

So  equable  and  high. 

She  did  not  cast  her  eyelids  down, 

Ashamed  of  being  poor  ; 
To  her  a  gay  young  man  from  town, 

Was  no  discomfiture. 

She  reverenced  honor's  sacred  laws 

As  much,  ay  more  than  he, 
And  was  not  put  about  because 

He  had  more  gold  than  she  ; 
14 


106  BALLADS. 

But  held  her  house  beneath  a  hand 

As  steady  and  serene, 
As  though  it  were  a  palace,  and 

As  though  she  were  a  queen. 

And  when  she  set  our  silver  cup 

Upon  the  cloth  of  snow, 
For  Nicholas,  I  lifted  up 

My  timid  eyes,  I  know  ; 

And  saw  a  ring,  as  needs  I  must, 
Upon  his  finger  shine  ; 

0  how  I  longed  to  have  it  just 
A  minute  upon  mine  ! 

1  thought  of  fairy  folk  that  led 
Their  lives  in  sylvan  shades, 

And  brought  fine  things,  as  I  had  read, 
To  little  rustic  maids. 

And  so  I  mused  within  my  heart, 
How  I  would  search  about 

The  fields  and  woodlands,  for  my  part, 
Till  I  should  spy  them  out. 

And  so  when  down  the  western  sky 
The  sun   had  dropped  at  last, 

Right  softly  and  right  cunningly 
From  out  the  house  I  passed. 


BALLADS.  10r 

It  was  as  if  awake  I  dreamed, 

All  Nature  was  so  sweet 
The  small  round  dandelions  seemed 

Like  stars  beneath  my  feet. 

Fresh  greenness  as  I  went  along 

The  grass  did  seem  to  take, 
And  birds  beyond  the  time  of  song 

Kept  singing  for  my  sake. 

The  dew  o'erran  the  lily's  cup, 

The  ground-moss  shone  so  well, 
That  if  the  sky  were  down  or  up, 

Was  hard  for  me  to  tell. 

I  never  felt  my  heart  to  sit 

So  lightly  on  its  throne  ; 
Ah,  \vlio  knew  what  would  come  of  it, 

With  fairy  folk  alone  ! 

An  hour,  —  another  hour  went  by, 

All  harmless  arts  I  tried, 
And  tried  in   vain,  and  wearily 

My  hopes  within  me  died. 

No  tent  of  moonshine,  and  no  ring 

Of  dancers  could  I  find,  — 
The  fairy  rich  folk  and  their  king 

For  once  would  be  unkind  ! 


108  BALLADS. 

My  spirit,  nameless  fear  oppressed  ; 

My  courage  went  adrift, 
As  all  out  of  the  low  dark  west 

The  clouds  began  to  lift. 

I  lost  my  way  within  the  wood,  — 

The  path  I  could  not  guess, 
When,  Heaven  be  praised,  before  me  stood 

My  cousin  Nicholas  ! 

Right  tenderly  within  his  arm 
My  shrinking  hand  he  drew  ; 

He  spoke  so  low,  "  these  damps  will  harm 
My  little  Tricksey  True." 

I  know  not  how  it  was  :   my  shame 
In  new  delight  was  drowned  ; 

His  accent  gave  my  rustic  name 
Almost  a  royal  sound. 

He  bent  his  cheek  against  my  face,  — 

He  whispered  in  my  ear, 
"  Why  came  you  to  this  dismal  place  ? 

Tell  me,  my  little  dear  !  " 

Betwixt  the  boughs  that  o'er  us  hung 

The  light  began  to  fall  ; 
His  praises  loosed  my  silent  tongue,  — 

At  last  I  told  him  all. 


BALLADS.  109 

I  felt  his  lips  my  forehead  touch ; 

I  shook  and  could  not  stand  ; 
The  rino-  I  coveted  so  much 

O 

Was  shining  on  my  hand  1 

We  talked  about  the  little  elves 

And  fairies  of  the  grove, 
And  then  we  talked  about  ourselves, 

And  then  we  talked  of  love. 

'T  was  at  the  ending  of  the  lane,  — 

The  garden  yet  to  pass, 
I  offered  back  his  ring  again 

To  my  good  Nicholas. 

"  Dear  Tricksey,  don't  you  understand, 

You  foolish  little  thing," 
He  said,  "  that  I  must  have  the  hand, 

As  well  as  have  the  ring  ?  " 

"To-night — just  now!     I  pray  you  wait! 

The  hand  is  little  worth  !  " 
"  Nay  darling  —  now  !  we  're  at  the  gate  I  " 

And  so  he  had  them  both ! 


$  EIGHBORED  by  a  maple  wood, 

Dim  and  dusty,  old  and  low  ; 
Thus  our  little  schoolhouse  stood,  - 
Two  and  twenty  years  ago. 


On  the  roof  of  clapboards,  dried 
Smoothly  in  the  summer  heat, 
|  Of  the  hundred  boys  that  tried, 
Never  one  could  keep  his  feet. 


Near  the  door  the  cross-roads  were, 
A  stone's  throw,  perhaps,  away, 

And  to  read  the  sign-board  there, 
Made  a  pastime  every  day. 

He  who  turned  the  index  down, 
So  it  pointed  on  the  sign 

To  the  nearest  market- town, 

Was,  we  thought,  a  painter  fine  ; 

And  the  childish  wonder  rose, 
As  we  gazed  with  puzzled  looks 

On  the  letters,  good  as  those 
Printed  in  our  spelling-books. 


BALLADS.  Ill 

Near  it  was  a  well,  —  how  deep ! 

With  its  bucket  warped  and  dry, 
Broken  curb,  and  leaning  sweep, 

And  a  plum-tree  growing  by, 

Which,  with  low  and  tangly  top, 
Made  the  grass  so  bright  and  cool, 

Travellers  would  sometimes  stop, 
For  a  half-hour's  rest  —  in  school, 

Not  an  eye  could  keep  the  place 

Of  the  lesson  then,  —  intent 
Each  to  con  the  stranger's  face, 

And  to  see  the  road  he  went. 

Scattered  are  we  far  and  wide,  — 

Careless,  curious  children  then ; 
Wanderers  some,  and  some  have  died  ; 

Some,  thank  God,  are  honest  men. 

But,  as  playmates,  large  or  small, 

Noisy,  thoughtful,   or  demure, 
I  can  see  them,  one  and  all, 

The  great  world  in  miniature. 

Common  flowers,  with  common  names, 
Filled  the  woods  and  meadows  round : 

Dandelions  with  their  flames 

Smothered  flat  against  the  ground  ; 


112  BALLADS. 

Mullein  stocks,  with  gray  braids  set 
Full  of  yellow  ;  thistles,  speared  ; 

Violets,  purple  near  to  jet ; 

Crowfoot,  and  the  old-man's-beard. 

And  along  the  dusty  way, 

Thick  as  prints  of  naked  feet, 

Iron-weeds  and  fennel  gay 

Blossomed  in  the  summer  heat. 

Hedges  of  wild  blackberries, 
Pears,  and  honey-locusts  tall, 

Spice-wood,  and  "  good  apple-trees," 
Well  enough  we  knew  them  all. 

But  the  ripest  blackberries, 

Nor  the  mulleins  topped  with  gold, 

Peach  nor  honey-locust  trees, 

Nor  the  flowers,  when  all  are  told, 

Pleased  us  like  the  cabin,  near 
Which  a  silver  river  ran, 

And  where  lived,  for  many  a  year, 
Christopher,  the  crazy  man. 

Hair  as  white  as  snow  he  had, 
Mixing  with  a  beard  that  fell 

Down  his  breast ;   if  he  were  mad, 
Passed  our  little  wits  to  tell. 


BALLADS.  113 

In  his  eyes'  unfathomed  blue 

Burned  a  ray  so  clear  and  bright, 
Oftentimes  we  said  we  knew 

It  would  shame  the  candlelight. 

Mystic  was  the  life  he  led  ; 

Picking  herbs  in  secret  nooks,  — 
Finding,  as  the  old  folks  said, 

"  Tongues  in  trees  and  books  in  brooks." 

Waking  sometimes  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  solemn  middle  night. 

O        ' 

He  had  seen  his  narrow  room 
Full  of  angels  dressed  in  white ; 

So  he  said  in  all  good  faith, 

And  one  day,  with  tearful  eye, 
Told  us  that  he  heard  old  Death 

Sharpening  his  scythe,  close  by. 

Whether  it  were  prophecy, 

Or  a  dream,  I  cannot  say  ; 
But  good  little  Emily 

Died  the  evening  of  that  day. 

In  the  woods,  where  up  and  down 

We  had  searched,  and  only  seen 
Adder's-tongue,  with  dull,   dead  brown, 

Mottled  with  tho  heavy  green  ; 
l 


114  BALLADS. 

May-apples,  or  wild  birds  sweet, 
Going  through  the  shadows  dim, 

Spirits,  with  white,  noiseless  feet, 

Walked,  he  said,  and  talked  with  him. 

"  What  is  all  the  toiling  for, 

And  the  spinning  ?  "  he  would  say ; 

"See  the  lilies  at  my  door,  — 
Never  dressed  a  queen  as  they. 

"  He  who  gives  the  ravens  food 
For  our  wants  as  well  will  care  ; 

O  my  children  !  He  is  good,  — 
Better  than  your  fathers  are." 

So  he  lived  from  year  to  year, 
Never  toiling,  mystery-clad,  — 

Spirits,  if  they  did  appear, 
Being  all  the  friends  he  had. 

Alternating  seasons  sped, 

And  there  fell  no  night  so  rough, 

But  his  cabin  fire,  he  said, 

Made  it  light  and  warm  enough. 

O  O 

Soft  and  slow  our  steps  would  be, 

As  the  silver  river  ran, 
Days  when   we  had  been  to  see 

Christopher,  the  ^razv  man. 


BALLADS.  115 


Soft  and  slow,  to  number  o'er 
The  delights  he  said  he  had; 

Wondering  always,  more  and  more, 
Whether  he  were  wise  or  mad. 

On  a  hill-side  next  the  sun, 

Where  the  schoolboys  quiet  keep, 

And  to  seed  the  clovers  run, 
He  is  lying,  fast  asleep. 

But  at  last,  (to  Heaven  be  praise,) 

Gabriel  his  bed  will  find, 
Giving  love  for  lonely  days, 

And  for  visions,  his  right  mind. 

Sometimes,  when  I  think  about 
How  he  lived  among  the  flowers, 

Gently  going  in  and  out, 

With  no  cares  nor  fretful  hours,  — 

Of  the  deep  serene  of  light, 

In  his  blue,  unfathomed  eyes,  — 

Seems  the  childish  fancy  right, 
That  could  half  believe  him  wise. 


116  BALLADS. 


THE   FERRY  OF   GALLAWAY. 

IN  the  stormy  waters  of  Gallaway 

My  boat  had  been  idle  the  livelong  day, 

Tossing  and  tumbling  to  and  fro, 

For  the  wind  was  high  and  the  tide  was  low. 

The  tide  was  low  and  the  wind  was  high, 
And  we  were  heavy,   my  heart  and  I, 
For  not  a  traveller  all  the  day 
Had  crossed  the  ferry  of  Gallaway. 

At  set  o'  th'  sun,  the  clouds  outspread 
Like  wings  of  darkness  overhead, 
When,  out  o'  th'  west,  my  eyes  took  heed 
Of  a  lady,  riding  at  full  speed. 

The  hoof-strokes  struck  on  the  flinty  hill 
Like  silver  ringing  on  silver,  till 
I  saw  the  veil  in  her  fair  hand  float, 
And  flutter  a  signal  for  my  boat. 

The  waves  ran  backward  as  if  'ware 
Of  a  presence  more  than  mortal  fair, 
And  my  little  craft  leaned  down  and  lay 
With  her  side  to  th'  sands  o'  th'  Gallaway. 


BALLADS.  117 

"  Haste,  good  boatman  !  haste  !  "  she  cried, 
"  And  row  me  over  the  other  side  !  " 
And  she  stript  from  her  finger  the  shining  ring, 
And  gave  it  me  for  the  ferrying. 

"  Woe  's  me  !  my  Lady,  I  may  not  go, 
For  the  wind  is  high  and  th'  tide  is  low, 
And  rocks  like  dragons  lie  in  the  wave, — 
Slip  back  on  your  finger  the  ring  you  gave  1  " 

"  Nay,  nay !  for  the  rocks  will  be  melted  down, 
And  the  waters,  they  never  will  let  me  drown, 
And  the  wind  a  pilot  will  prove  to  thee, 
For  my  dying  lover,  he  waits  for  me  !  " 

Then  bridle-ribbon  and  silver  spur 
She  put  in  my  hand,  but  I  answered  her  : 
"  The   wind  is  high  and  the  tide  is  low,  — 
I  must  not,  dare  not,  and  will  not  go  !  " 

Her  face  grew  deadly  white  witli  pain, 
And  she  took  her  champing  steed  by  th'  mane, 
And  bent  his  neck  to  th'  ribbon  and  spur 
That  lay  in  my  hand,  —  but  I  answered  her : 

"  Though  you  should  proffer  me  twice  and  thrice 
Of  ring  and  ribbon  and  steed,  the  price,  — 
The  leave  of  kissing  your  lily-like  hand  1 
I  never  could  row  you  safe  to  th'  land." 


118  £  ALL  ADS. 

"  Then  God  have  mercy  ! "  she  faintly  cried, 
"  For  my  lover  is  dying  the  other  side  1 
O  cruel,  O  cruellest   Gallaway, 
Be  parted,  and  make  me  a  path,  I  pray  !  " 

Of  a  sudden,  the  sun  shone  large  and  bright 
As  if  he  were  staying  away  the  night, 
And  the  rain  on  the  river  fell  as  sweet 
As  the  pitying  tread  of  an  angel's  feet. 

And  spanning  the  water  from  edge  to  edge 
A  rainbow  stretched  like  a  golden  bridge, 
And  I  put  the  rein  in  her  hand  so  fair, 
And  she  sat  in  her  saddle,  th'  queen  o'  th'  air. 

And  over  the  river,  from  edge  to  edge, 

She  rode  on  the  shifting  and  shimmering  bridge, 

And  landing  safe  on  the  farther  side,  — 

"  Love  is  thy  conqueror,  Death  !  "  she  cried. 


OUR  unwise  purposes  are  wisely  crossed ; 

Being  small  ourselves,  we  must  essay  small  things  : 
Th'  adventurous  mote,  with  wide,  outwearied  wings 

Crawling  across  a  water-drop,  is  lost. 


BALLADS. 


REVOLUTIONARY   STORY. 

"  GOOD  mother,   what  quaint  legend  are  you  reading, 

In  that  old-fashioned  book  ? 
Beside  your  door  I  've  been  this  half-hour  pleading 

All  vainly  for  one  look. 

"  About  your  chair  the  little  birds  fly  bolder 

Than  in  the   woods  they  fly, 
With  heads  dropt  slantwise,  as  if  o'er  your  shoulder 

They  read  as  they  went  by  ; 

"  Each  with  his  glossy  collar  ruffling  double 

Around  his  neck  so  slim, 
Even  as  with  that  atmosphere  of  trouble, 

Through  which  our  blessings  swim. 

"  Is  it  that  years  throw  on  us  chillier  shadows, 

The  longer  time  they  run, 
That,  with  your  sad  face  fronting  yonder  meadows, 

You  creep  into  the  sun  ? 

"  I  '11  sit  upon  the  ground  and  hear  your  story." 

Sadly  she  shook  her  head, 
And,  pushing  back  the  thin,  white  veil  of  glory 

'Twixt  her  and  heaven,  she  said  : 


120  BALLADS. 

"Ah!  wondering  child,  I  knew  not  of  your  pleading; 

My  thoughts  were  chained,  indeed, 
.Upon  my  book,  and  yet  what  you  call  reading 

I  have  no  skill  to  read. 

u  There  was  a  time  once  when  I  had  a  lover  ; 

Why  look  you  in  such  douht  ? 
True,  I  am  old  now  —  ninety  years  and  over:" 

A  crumpled  flower  fell  out 

From  'twixt  the   book-leaves.     "  Seventy  years    they  Ve 
pressed  it : 

'T  was  like  a  living  flame, 
When  he  that  plucked  it,  by  the  plucking  blessed  it  :  -1 

I  knew  the  smile  that  came, 

And  flickered  on  her  lips  in  wannish  splendor, 

Was  lighted  at  that  flower, 
For  even  yet  its  radiance,  faint  and  tender,  1 

Reached  to  its  primal  hour. 

"  God  bless  you !  seventy  years  since  it  was  gathered  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  remember  well ;  " 
And  in  her  old  hand,  palsy-struck,  and  withered, 

She  held  it  up  to  smell. 

''  And  is  it  true,  as  poets  say,  good  mother, 

That  love  can  never  die  ? 
And  that  for  all  it  gives  unto  another 

It  grows  the  richer  ?  "     "  Ay, 


BALLADS.  121 

u  The  wild  wall-brier,  from  spring  till  summer  closes, 

All  the  great  world  around, 
Hangs  by  its  thorny  arms  to  keep  its  roses 

From  off  the  low,  black  ground  ; 

"  And  love  is  like  it :  sufferings  but  try  it ; 

Death  but  evokes  the  might 
That,  all  too  mighty  to  be  thwarted  by  it, 

Breaks  through  into  the  light." 

"  Then  frosty  age  may  wrap  about  its  bosom 

The  light  of  fires  long  dead  ?  " 
Kissing  the  piece  of  dust  she  called  a  blossom, 

She  shut  the  book,  and  said  : 

"  You  see  yon  ash-tree  with  its  thick  leaves,  blowing 

The  blue  side  out?     (Great  Power, 
Keep  its  head  green  !)     My  sweetheart,  in  the  mowing, 

Beneath  it  found  my  flower. 

"  A  mile  off  all  that  day  the  shots  were  flying, 

And  mothers,  from  the  door, 
Looked  for  the  sons,  who,  on  their  faces  lying, 

Would  come  home  never  more. 

•"  Across  the  battle-field  the  dogs  went  whining  ; 

I  saw,  from  where  I  stood, 
Horses  with  quivering  flanks,  and  strained  eyes,  shining 

Like  thin  skins  full  of  blood. 
16 


122  BALLADS. 

"  Brave  fellows  we  had  then  :  there  was  my  neighbor,  — 

The  British  lines  he  saw  ; 
Took  his  old  scythe  and  ground  it  to  a  sabre, 

And  mowed  them  down  like  straw  ! 

"And  there  were  women,  then,  of  giant  spirit, — 

Nay,  though  the  blushes  start, 
The  garments  their  degenerate  race  inherit 

Hang  loose  about  the  heart. 

"Where  was  I,  child?  how  is  my  story  going?" 

"  Why,  where  by  yonder  tree 
With  leaves  so  rough  your  sweetheart,  in  the  mowing, 

Gathered  your  flower!"     "Ah  me! 

"  My  poor  lad  dreamed  not  of  the  red-coat  devil, 

That,  just  for  pastime,  drew 
To  his  bright  epaulet  his  musket  level, 

And  shot  him  through  and  through. 

"  Beside  him  I  was  kneeling  the  next  minute  ; 

From  the  red  grass  he  took 
The  shattered  hand  up,  and  the  flower  was  in  it 

You  saw  within  my  book." 

"  He    died."       "  Then    you    have    seen     some     stormy 
weather  ?  " 

"  Ay,  more  of  foul  than  fair ; 
And  all  the  snows  we  should  have  shared  together 

Have  fallen  on  my  hair." 


BALLADS.  123 

"And  has  your  life  been  worth  the  living,  mother, 

With  all  its  sorrows  ?  "     "  Ay, 
I  'd  live  it  o'er  again,  were  there  no  other, 

For  this  one  memory." 

I  answered  soft,  —  I  felt  the  place  was  holy,  — 

One  maxim  stands  approved : 
"  They  know  the  best  of  life,  however  lowly, 

Who  ever  have  been  loved." 


JUST  here  and  there  with  some  poor  little  ray 
Of  lovely  sort,  the  web  of  life  is  crossed  ; 

Where  a  good  impulse  found  in  action  play, — 
Where  a  true  word  was  said:  the  rest  is  lost. 


124  BALLADS. 


HOPE  in  our  hearts  doth  only  stay 

Like  a  traveller  at  an  inn, 
Who  riseth  up  at  the  break  of  clay 

His  journey  to  begin. 

Faith,  when  her  soul  has  known  the  blight 

Of  noisy  doubts  and  fears, 
Goes  thenceforward  clad  in  the  light 

Of  the  still  eternal  years. 

Truth  is  Truth  :  no  more  in  the  prayers 

Of  the  righteous  Pharisee; 
No  Itss  in  the  humblest  sinner  that  wears 

This  poor  mortality. 

Bat  Love  is  greatest  of  all :  no  loss 
Can  shadow  its  face  with  gloom,  — 

As  glorious  hanging  on  the  cross 
As  breaking  out  of  the  tomb. 


Cijcmjjijts  anti  Cijeortes* 


THANKSGIVING. 

FOR  the  sharp  conflicts  I  have  had  with  sin, 

Wherein 

I  have  been  wedged  and  pressed 
Nigh  unto  death,  I  thank  Thee,  with  the  rest 
Of  my  befallings,  Lord,  of  brighter  guise, 

And  named  by  mortals,  good, 
Which  to  my  hungry  heart  have  given  food, 

Or  costly  entertainment  to  my  eyes. 

For  I  can  only  see, 
With  spirit  truly  reconciled  to  Thee, 
In  the  sad  evils  with  our  lives  that  blend, 

A  means,  and  not  an  end : 


Since  Thou  wert  free 

To  do  thy  will  —  knewest  the  bitter  worth 
Of  sin,  and  all  its  possibility, 

Ere  that,  by  thy  decree, 


128  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

The  ancient  silence  of  eternity 

Was  broken  by  the  music  of  man's  birth. 

Theiefore  I  lay  my  brows 

Discrowned  of  youth,  within  thy  gracious  hands, 
Or  rise  while  daybreak  dew  is  on  the  boughs 
To  strew  thy  road  with  sweets,  for  thy  commands 
Do  make  the  current  of  my  life  to  run 

Through  lost  and  cavernous  ways, 

Bordered  with  cloudy  days, 
In  its  slow  working  out  into  the  sun. 

Hills,  clap  your  hands,  and  all  ye  mountains,  shout ; 
Hie,  fainting  hart,  to  where  the  waters  flow  ; 
Children  of  men,  put  off  your  fear  and  doubt ; 
The  Lord  who  chasteneth,  loveth  you,'  for,  lo ! 
The  wild  herb's  wounded  stalk  He  cares  about, 
And  shields  the  ravens  when  the   rough  winds  blow  ; 
He  sendeth  down  the  drop  of  shining  dew 

To  light  the  daisy  from  her  house  of  death, 
And  shall  He,  then,  forget  the  like  of  you, 

O  ye,  of  little  faith  1 

He  speaketh  to  the  willing  soul  and  heart 
By  dreams,  and  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 

And  happy  is  the  man  who,  for  his  part, 
Rejoiceth  in  the  light 

Of  all  His  revelations,  whether  found 

In  the  old  books,  so  sacredly  upbound, 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  129 

And  clasped  with  golden  clasps,  or  whether  writ 
Through  later  instillations  of  His  power, 

Where  he  that  runneth  still  perceiveth  it 
Illuminating  every  humble  flower 

That  springeth  from  the  ground. 

His  testimony  all  the  time  is  sure ; 

The  smallest  star  that  keepeth  in  the  night 

His  silver  candle  bright, 
And  every  deed  of  good  that  anywhere 
Maketh  the  hands  of  holy  women   white  ; 
All  sweet  religious  work,  all  earnest  praver, 
Of  uttered,  or  unutterable  speech  ; 
Whatever  things  are  peaceable  and  pure, 

*     Whatever  things  are  right, 
These  are  His  witnesses,  ay,  all  and  each ! 

Thrice  happy  is  the  man  who  doth  obey 

The  Lord  of  Love,  through  love  ;  who  fears  to  break 

The  righteous  law  for  th'  law's  righteous  sake  ; 

And  who,  by  daily  use  of  blessings,  gives 

Thanks  for  the  daily  blessings  he  receives  ; 

His  spirit  grown  so  reverent,  it  dares 

Cast  the  poor  shows   of  reverence  away, 

Believing  they 

More  glorify  the  Giver,   who  partake 
Of  His  good  gifts,  than  they  who  fast  and  makt' 
Burnt  offerings  and  Pharisaic  prayers. 
17 


130  THOUGHTS   AND    THEORIES. 

The  wintry  snows  that  blind 
The  air,  and  blight  what  things  were  glorified 
By  summer's  reign,  we  do  not  think  unkind 
When  that  we  see  them  change;!,  afar  and  wide, 
To  rain,  that,  fretting  in  the  rose's  face, 

Brings  out  a  softer  grace, 
And  makes  the  troops  of  rustic  daffodils 
Shake  out  their  yellow  skirts  along  the  hills, 
And  all  the  valleys  blush  from  side  to  side. 

And  as  we  climb  the  stair 
Of  rough  and  ugly  fortune,  by  the  props 
Of  faith  and  charity,  and  hope  and  prayer, 
To  the  serene  and  beauteous  mountain-tops 
Of  our  best  human  possibility, 
Where  haunts  the  spirit  of  eternity, 
The  world  below  looks  fair, — 
Its  seeming  inequalities  subdued, 
And  level,  all,  to  purposes  of  good. 

I  thank  thee,  Gracious  Lord, 

For  the  divine  award 

Of  strength  that  helps  me  up  the  heavy  heights 
Of  mortal  sorrow,  where,  through  tears  forlorn, 
My  eyes  get  glimpses  of  the  authentic  lights 

Of  love's  eternal  morn. 

For  thereby  do  I  trust 
That  our  afflictions  spring  not  from  the  dust, 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  131 

And  that  tliej  are  not  sent 

In  arbitrary  chastisement, 
Nor  as  avengers  to  put  out  the  light 
And  let  our  souls  loose  in  some  damndd  night 
That  holds  the  balance  of  thy  glory,  just ; 
But  rather,  that  as  lessons  they  are  meant, 
And  as  the  fire  tempers  the  iron,  so 

Are  we  refined  by  woe. 

I  thank  Thee  for  my  common  blessings,  still 

Rained  through  thy  will 

Upon  my  head  ;  the  air 

That  knows  so  many  tunes  which  grief  beguile, 
Breathing  its  light  love  to  me  everywhere, 
And  that  will  still  be  kissing  all  the  while. 

I  thank  Thee  that  my  childhood's  vanished  days 

Were  cast  in  rural  ways, 
Where  I  beheld,  with  gladness  ever  new, 

That  sort  of  vagrant  dew 
Which  lodges  in  the  beggarly  tents  of  such 
Vile  weeds  as  virtuous  plants  disdain  to  touch, 
And  with  rough-bearded  burs,  night  after  night, 
Upgathered  by  the  morning,  tender  and  true, 

Into  her  clear,  chaste  light. 

Such  ways  I  learned  to  know 
That  free  will  cannot  go 
Outside  of  mercy ;  learned  to  bless  His  name 


132  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Whose  revelations,  ever  thus  renewed 
Along  the  varied  year,  in  field  and  wood, 
His  loving  care  proclaim. 

I  thank  Thee  that  the  grass  and  the  red  rose 

O 

Do  what  they  can  to  tell 

How  spirit  through  all  forms  of  matter  flows  ; 
For  every  thistle  by  the  common  way 
Wearing  its  homely  beauty, — for  each  spring 
That  sweet  and  homeless,  runneth  where  it  will, 

For  night  and  day, 

For  the  alternate  seasons,  —  everything 
Pertaining  to  life's  marvellous  miracle. 

Even  for  the  lowly  flower 
That,  living,  dwarfed  and  bent 
Under  some  beetling  rock,  in  gloom  profound, 
Far  from  her  pretty  sisters  of  the  ground, 

And  shut  from  sun  and  shower, 
Seemeth  endowed  with  human  discontent. 

Ah  !   what  a  tender  hold 
She  taketh  of  us  in  our  own  despite, — 

A  sadly-solemn  creature, 

Crooked,  despoiled  of  nature, 
Leaning  from  out  the  shadows,  dull  and  cold, 
To  lay  her  little  white  face  in  the  light. 

The  chopper  going  by  her  rude  abode, 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Thinks  of  his  own  rough  hut,  his  old  wife's  smile, 
And  of  the  bare  young  feet 
That  run  through  th'  frost  to  meet 
His  coming,  and  forgets  the  weary  load 
Of  sticks  that  bends  his  shoulders  down  the  while. 

I  thank  thee,  Lord,  that  Nature  is  so  wise, 
So  capable  of  painting  in  men's  eyes 

Pictures  whose  airy  hues 

Do  blend  and  interfuse 
With  all  the  darkness  that  about  us  lies,  — 

That  clearly  in  our  hearts 

Her  law  she  writes, 

Reserving  cunning  past  our  mortal  arts, 
Whereby  she  is  avenged  for  all  her  slights. 

And  I  would  make  thanksgiving 

For  the  sweet,  double  living, 
That  gives  the  pleasures  that  have  passed  away, 
The  sweetness  and  the  sunshine  of  to-day. 

I  see  the  furrows  ploughed  and  see  them  planted, 
See  the  young  cornstalks  rising  green  and  fair ; 

Mute  things  are  friendly,  and  I  am  acquainted 
With  all  the  luminous  creatures  of  the  air  ; 

And  with  the  cunning  workers  of  the  ground 

That  have  their  trades  born  with  them,  and  with  all 
The  insects,  large  and  small, 

That  fill  the  Summer  with  a  wave  of  sound. 


134  THOUGHTS   AND    THEORIES. 

I  watch  the  wood-bird  line 
Her  pretty  nest,  with  eyes  that  never  tire, 
And  watch  the  sunbeams  trail  their  wisps  of  fire 
Along  the  bloomless  bushes,  till  they  shine. 

The  violet,  gathering  up  her  tender  blue 

From  th'  dull  ground,  is  a  good  sight  to  see  ; 

And  it  delighteth  me 
To  have  the  mushroom  push  his  round  head  through 

The  dry  and  brittle  stubble,  as  I  pass, 
His  smooth  and  shining  coat,  half  rose  half  fawn, 

But  just  put  on  ; 

And  to  have  April  slip  her  showery  grass 
Under  my  feet,  as  she  was  used  to  do, 
In  the  dear  Spring-times  gone. 

I  make  the  brook,  my  Nile, 

And  hour  by  hour  beguile, 

Tracking  its  devious  course 

Through  briery  banks  to  its  mysterious  source, 
That  I  discover,  always,  at  my  will,— 

A  little  silver  star, 
Under  the  shaggy  forehead  of  some  hill, 

From  travelled  ways  afar. 

Forgetting  wind  and  flood, 
I  build  my  house  of  unsubstantial  sand, 
Shaping  the  roof  upon  my  double  hand, 
And  setting  up  the  dry  and  sliding  grains, 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  135 

With  infinite  pains, 

In  the  similitude 

Of  beam  and  rafter, — then 
Where  to  the  ground  the  dock  its  broad  leaf  crooks, 

I  hunt  long  whiles  to  find  the  little  men 
That  I  have  read  of  in  my  story-books. 

Often,  in  lawless  wise, 
Some  obvious  work  of  duty  I  delay, 

Taking  my  fill 

Of  an  uneasy  liberty,  and  still 

Close  shutting  up  my  eyes, 
As  though  it  were  not  given  me  to  see 
The  avenging  ghost  of  opportunity 

Thus  slighted,  far  away. 

I  linger  when   I  know 
That  I  should  forward  go  ; 
Now,  haply  for  the  katydid's  wild  shrill, 
Now  listening;  to  the  low, 

O  ' 

Dull  noise  of  mill-wheels  —  counting,  now,  the  row 
Of  clouds  about  the  shoulder  of  the  hill. 

My  heart  anew  rejoices 

In  th'  old  familiar  voices 
That  come  back  to  me  like  a  lullaby  ; 

Now  'tis  the  church-bell's  call, 
A.nd  now  a  teamster's  whistle,  —  now,  perhaps, 

The  silvery  lapse 


136  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Of  waters  in  among  the  reeds  that  meet ; 

And  now,  down-dropping  to  a  whispeiy  fall, 
Some  milkmaid,  chiding  with  love's  privilege, 

Through  the  green  -wall 

Of  the  dividing  hedge, 
And  the  so   sadly  eloquent  reply 
Of  the  belated  cow-boy,  low  and  sweet. 

I  see,  as  in  a  dream, 

The  farmer  plodding  home  behind  his  team, 
With  all  the  tired  shadows  following, 
And  see  him  standing  in  his  threshing-floor, 
The  hungry  cattle  gathered  in  a  ring 

About  the  great  barn-door. 

I  see  him  in  the  sowing, 

And  see  him  in  the  mowing, 
The  air  about  him  thick  with  gray-winged  moths ; 

The  day's  work  nearly  over, 
And  the  long  meadow  ridged  with  double  swaths 

Of  sunset-light  and  clover. 

When  falls  the  time  of  solemn  Sabbath  rest, 

In  all  he  has  of  best 
I  see  him  going  (for  he  never  fails) 
To  church,  in  either  equitable  hand 
A  shining  little  one,  and  all  his  band 
Trooping  about  him  like  a  flock  of  quails. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  137 

With  necks  bowed  low,  and  hid  to  half  their  length 
Under  the  jutting  load   of  new-made  hay, 
I  see  the  oxen  give  their  liberal  strength 

Day  utter  day, 

And  see  the  mower  stay 
His  scythe,  and  leave  a  patch  of  grass  to  spread 

Its  shelter  round  the  bed 
Of  the  poor  frighted  ground-bird  in  his  way. 

I  see  the  joyous  vine, 

And  see  the  wheat  set  up  its  rustling  spears, 
And  see  the   Sun  with  golden  fingers  sign 

The  promise  of  full  ears. 

I  see  the  slender  Moon 

Time  after  time  grow  old  and  round  in  tli'  face, 
And  see  the  Autumn  take  the  Summer's  place, 

And  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
In  their  thick,  bitter  hulls  of  green  and  brown, 
To  make  the  periods  of  the  school-boy's  tune  ; 
I  see  the  apples,   with  their  russet  cheeks 

Shaming  the  wealth  of  June  ; 
And  see  the  bean-pods,  gay  with  purple   freaks, 
And  all  the  hills  with  yellow  leaves  o'erblown, 
As  through  the  fading  woods  I  walk  alone, 

And  hear  the  wind  o'erhead 
Touching  the  joyless  boughs  and  making  moan, 

Like  some  old  crone, 

Who  on  her  withered  fingers  counts  her  dead. 
18 


138  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

I  hear  the  beetle's  hum,  and  see  the  gnats 
Sagging  along  the  air  in  strings  of  jet, 
And  from  their  stubs  I  see  the  weak-eyed  bats 
Flying  an  hour  before  the  Sun  is  set. 

Picture  on  picture  crowds, 
And  by  the  gray  and  priestlike  silence  led, 
Comes  the  first  star  through  evening's  steely  gates 

And  chides  the  day  to  bed 
Within  the  ruddy  curtains  of  the  clouds  ; 

So  gently  com'st  thou,  Death, 

To  him  who  waits, 
In  the  assurance  of  our  blessed  faith, 
To  be  acquainted  Avith  thy  quiet  arms, 

His  good  deeds,  great  and  small, 

Builded  about  him  like  a  silver  wall, 
And  bearing  back  the  deluge  of  alarms. 

The  mother  doth  not  tenderer  appear 
When,  from  her  heart  her  tired  darling  laid, 
She  trims  his  cradle  all  about  with   shade, 
And  will  not  kiss  his  sleepy  eyes  for  fear. 

I  see  the  windows  of  the  homestead  bright 

With  the  warm  evening-light, 

And  by  the  winter-fire 

I  see  the  gray-haired  sire 

Serenely  sitting, 

Forgetful  of  the  work-day  toil  and  care, 
The  old  wife  by  his  elbow,  at  her  knitting ; 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  139 

The  cricket  on  the  hearth-stone  singing  shrill, 
And  the  spoiled  darling  of  the  house  at  will 

Climbing  the  good  man's  chair, 

A  furtive  glimpse  to  catch 
Of  her  fair  face  in  his  round  silver  watch, 
That  she  in  her  high  privilege  must  wear, 

And  listen  to  the  music  that  is  in  it, 

Though  only  for  a  minute. 

I  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  every  saddest  cross  ; 

Gain  cornes  to  us  through  loss, 

The  while  we  go, 
Blind  travellers  holding  by  the  wall  of  time, 

And  seeking  out  through  woe 
The  things  that  are  eternal  and  sublime. 

Ah  !  sad  are  they  of  whom  no  poet  writes 
Nor  ever  any  story-teller  hears,  — 
The   childless  mothers,   who  on  lonesome  nights 
Sit  by  their  fires  and  weep,  having  the  chores 
Done  for  the  day,  and  time  enough  to  see 

All  the  wide  floors 
Swept  clean  of  playthings  ;  they,  as  needs  must  be, 

Have  time  enough  for  tears. 

But  there  are  griefs  more  sad 
Than  ever  any  childless  mother  had,  — 
You  know  them,  who  do  smother  Nature's  cries 
Under  poor  masks 


140  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

v 

Of  smiling,  slow  despair,  — 
Who  put  your  white  and  unadoming  hair- 
Cut  of  your  way,  and  keep  at  homely  tasks, 
Unblest  with  any  praises  of  men's  eyes, 
Till  Death  comes  to  you  with  his  piteous  care, 
And  to  unmarriageabl'3  beds  you  go, 
Saying,  "It  is  not  much;   'tis  well,  if  so 

We   only  be  made  fair 
And  looks  of  love  await  us  when   we  rise." 

My  cross  is  not  as  hard  as  theirs  to  bear, 
And  yet  alike  to  me  are  storms,  or  calms; 

My  life's  young  joy, 

The  brown-cheeked  farmer-boy, 
Who  led  the  daisies  with  him  like  his  lambs,  — 
Carved  his  sweet  picture  on  my  milking-pail, 
And  cut  my  name  upon  his  thrashing-flail, 
One  day  stopped  singing  at  his  plough  ;  alas  ! 
Before  that  summer-time  was  gone,  the  grass 
Had  choked  the  path  which  to  the  sheep-field  led, 
Where  I  had  watched  him  tread 

So  oft  on  evening's  trail, — 
A  shining  oat-sheaf  balanced  on  his  head, 

And  nodding  to  the  gale. 

Rough  wintry  weather  came,  and  when  it  sped, 

The  emerald,  wave 

Swelling  above  my  little  sweetheart's  grave, 
With  such  bright,  bubbly  flowers  was  set  about, 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  141 

I  thought  he  blew  them  out, 
And  so  took  comfort  that  he  was  not  dead. 

For  I  was  of  a  rude  and  ignorant  crew, 
And  hence  believed  whatever  things  I  saw 
Were  the  expression  of  a  hidden  law ; 
And,  with  a  wisdom  wiser  than  I  knew, 

Evoked  the  simple  meanings  out  of  things 

By  childlike  questionings. 

And  he  they  named  with  shudderings  of  fear 
Had  never,  in  his  life,  been  half  so  near 
As  when  I  sat  all  day  with  cheeks  unkissed, 
And  listened  to  the  whisper,  very  low, 
That  said  our  love  above  death's  wave  of  woe 
Was  joined  together  like  the  seamless  mist. 

God's  yea  and  nay 

Are  not  so  far  away, 
I  said,  but  I  can  hear  them  when  I  please  ; 

Nor  could  I  understand 

Their  doubting  faith,  who  only  touch   His  hand 
Across  the  blind,  bewildering  centuries. 

And  often  yet,  upon  the  shining  track 

Of  the   old  faith,  come  back 
My  childish  fancies,  never  quite  subdued  ; 
And  when  the  sunset  shuts  up  in  the  wood 
The  whispery  sweetness  of  uncertainty, 


142  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

And  Night,  with  misty  locks  that  loosely  drop 
About  his  ears,  brings  rest,  a  welcome  boon, 
Playing  his  pipe  with  many  a  starry  stop 
That  makes  a  golden  snarling  in  his  tune  ; 

I  see  my  little  lad 

Under  the  leafy  shelter  of  the  boughs, 
Driving  his  noiseless,  visionary  cows, 
Clad  in  a  beauty  I  alone  can  see : 

Laugh,  you,  who  never  had 

Your  dead  come  back,  but  do  not  take  from  me 
The  harmless  comfort  of  my  foolish  dream, 

That  these,  our  mortal  eyes, 
Which  outwardly  reflect  the  earth  and  skies 

Do  introvert  upon   eternity  : 

And  that  the  shapes  you  deem 
Imaginations,  just  as  clearly  fall ; 
Each  from  its  own  divine  original. 

O  ' 

And  through  some  subtle  element  of  light, 
Upon  the  inward,  spiritual  eye, 
As  do  the  things  which  round  about  them  lie, 
Gross  and  material,  on  the  external  sight. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


THE   BRIDAL  VEIL. 

WE  'RE    married,    they    say,    and   you    think    you    have 

won   me,  — 

Well,  take  this  white  veil  from  my  head,  and  look  on  me : 
Here  's  matter  to  vex  you,  and  matter  to  grieve  you, 
Here  's  doubt  to  distrust  you,  and  faith  to  believe  you,  — 
I  am  all  as  you  see,  common  earth,  common  dew ; 
Be  wary,  and  mould  me  to  roses,  not  rue  ! 

Ah  !  shake  out  the  filmy  thing,  fold  after  fold, 
And  see  if  you  have  me  to  keep  and  to  hold,  — 
Look  close  on  my  heart  —  see  the  worst  of  its  sinning  — 
It  is  not  yours  to-day  for  the  yesterday's  winning  — 
The  past  is  not  mine  —  I  am  too  proud  to  borrow  — 
You  must  grow  to  new  heights  if  I  love  you  to-morrow. 

We  're  married !     I  'm  plighted  to  hold  up  your  praises, 
As  the  turf  at  your  feet  does  its  handful  of  daisies ; 
That  way  lies  my  honor,  —  my  pathway  of  pride, 
But,  mark  you.  if  greener  grass  grow  either  side, 
I  shall  know  it,  and  keeping  in  body  with  you, 
Shall  walk  ii*  my  spirit  with  feet  on  the  dew ! 


144  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

We  're  married  !     Oh,  pray  that  our  love  do  not  fail  ! 
I  have  wings  flattened  down  and  hid  under  my  veil : 
They  are  subtle  as  light  —  you  can  never  undo  them, 
And  swift  in  their  flight  —  you  can  never  pursue  them, 
And  spite  of  all  clasping,  and  spite  of  all   bands, 
I  can  slip  like  a  shadow,  a  dream,  from  your  hands. 

Nay,  call  me  not  cruel,  and  fear  not  to  take  me, 

I    am    yours    for    my    lifetime,    to    be    what    you    make 

me, — 

To  wear  my  white  veil  for  a  sign,  or  a  cover, 
As  you  shall  be  proven  my  lord,  or  my  lover  ; 
A  cover  for  peace  that  is  dead,  or  a  token 
Of  bliss  that  can  never  be  written  or  spoken. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  145 


THE   SPECIAL   DARLING. 

ALONG  the  grassy  lane  one  day, 
Outside  the  dull  old-fashioned  town, 

A  dozen  children  were  at  play  ; 
From  noontide  till  the  even-full, 

Curly-heads  flaxen  and  curly-heads  brown 

Were  busily  bobbing  up  and  down 
Behind  the  blackberry-wall. 

And  near  these  merry-makers  wild 

A  piteous  little  creature  was, 
With  face  unlike  the  face  of  a  child,  — 

Eyes  fixed,  and  seeming  frozen  still, 
And  legs  all  doubled  up  in  th'  grass, 

Disjointed  from  his  will. 

No  dream  deceived  his  dreary  hours, 

Nor  made  him  merry  nor  made  him  grave; 

He  did  not  hear  the  children  call, 

Tumbling  under  the  blackberry-wall, 
With  shoulders  white  with  flowers ; 

But  sat  with  great  wide  eyes  one  way, 

And  body  limberly  asway, 

Like  a  water-plant  In  a  wave. 

He  did  not  hear  the  little  stir 

The  ants  made,  working  in  their  hills, 


146  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Nor  see  the  pale,  gray  daffodils 
Lifting  about  him  their  dull  points, 

Njr  yet  the  curious  grasshopper 
Transport  his  green  and  angular  joints 

From  bush  to  bush.     Poor  simple  boy,  — 
His  senses  cheated  of  their  birth, 
He  might  as  well  have  grown  in  th'  earth, 

For  all  he  knew  of  joy. 

Near  where  the  children  took  their  fill 

Of  play,  outside  the  dull  old  town, 
And  neighbored  by  a  wide-flanked  hill, 

Where  mists  like  phantoms  up  and  down 
Moved  all  the  time,  a  homestead  was, 

With  window  toward  the  plot  of  grass 
Where  sat  this  child,  and  oft  and  again 

Tender  eyes  peered  through  the  pane, 
Whose  glances  still  were  dim, 

Till  leaping  over  the  blackberry-wall, 
Curly-heads  flaxen,  brown  and  all, 

They  rested  at  last  on  him. 

Ah,  who  shall  say  but  that  such  love 
Is  the  type  of  His  who  made  us  all, 

And  that  from  the  Kingdom  up  above 
The  eyes  that  note  the  sparrow's  fall, 
O'er  the  incapable,  weak  and  small, 

Watch  with  tenderest  care  : 

Such  is  my  hope  and  prayer. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  147 


A   DREAM   OF   THE   WEST. 

SUNSET  !  a  hush  is  in  the  air,  — 

Their  gray  old  heads  the  mountains  bare, 

As  if  the  winds  were  saying  prayer. 

The  woodland,  with  its  broad,  green  wing, 
Shuts  up  the  insect-whispering, 
And  lo !  the  Sea  gets  up  to  sing. 

The  last  red  splendor  fades  and  dies, 
And  shadows  one  by  one  arise, 
To  light  the  candles  of  the  skies. 

O  wildflowers,  wet  with  silver  dew  ! 

O  woods,  with  starlight  shining  through ! 

My  heart  is  in  the  West,  with  you. 

How  well  I  know  each  shrub  and  tree, 
Each  climbing  vine  and  brier  I  see ; 
Like  friends  they  seem  to  welcome  me. 

Musing,  1  go  along  the  streams, 
Sweetly  believing  in  my  dreams, 
For  Fancy  like  a  prophet  seems. 


148  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Beside  me  soft  steps  tread  the  sod, 
As  in  the  twilights  gone  they  trod, 
And  I  unlearn  my  doubts,  thank  God. 

Unlearn  my  doubts,  forget  my  fears, 
And  that  bad  carelessness  that  sears, 
And  makes  me  older  than  my  years. 

I  hear  a  dear,  familiar  tone, 

A  loving  hand  clasps  close  my  own, 

And  earth  seems  made  for  me  alone. 

If  I  my  fortunes  could  have  planned, 
I  would  not  have  let  go  that  hand, 
But  they  must  fall  who  learn  to  stand. 

And  how  to  blend  life's  varied  hues, 
What  ill  to  find,  whet  good  to  lose, 
My  Father  knoweth  best  to  choose. 


ON   SEEING  A   DROWNING   MOTH. 

POOR  little  moth  !  thy  summer  sports  were  done, 

Had  I  not  happened  by  this  pool  to  lie  ; 

But  thou  hast  pierced  my  conscience  very  sore 

With  thy  vain  flounderings,  so  come  ashore 

In  the  safe  hollow  of  my  helpful  hand,  — 

Rest  thee  a  little  on  the  warm,  dry  sand, 

Then  crawling  out  into  the  friendly  sun, 

As  best  thou  mayest,  get  thy  wet  wings  dry. 


150  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Ay,  it  has  touched  my  conscience,  little  moth, 
To  see  thy  bright  wings  made  for  other  use, 
Haply  for  just  a  moment's  chance  abuse, 
Dragging  thee,  thus,  to  death  ;  yet  am  I  loth 
To  heed  the  lesson',  for  I  fain  would  lie 
Along  the  margin  of  this  water  low 
And  watch  the  sunshine  run  in  tender  "jeams 

o 

Down  the  gray  elders  —  watch  those  flowers  of  light 

If  flowers  they  be,  and  not  the  golden  dreams 

Left  in  her  grassy  pillows  by  the  night, — 

The  dandelions,  that  trim  the  shadows  so, 

And  watch  the  wild  flag,  with  her  eyes  of  blue 

Wide  open  for  the  sun  to  look  into,  — 

Her  green  skirts  laid  along  the  wind,  and  she, 

As  if  to  mar  fair  fortune  wantonly, 

Wading  along  the  water,  half  her  height. 

Fain  would  I  lie,  with  arms  across  my  breast, 

As  quiet  as  yon  wood-duck  on  her  nest, 

That  sits  the  livelong  day  with   ruffled  quills, 

Waiting  to  see  the  little  yellow  bills 

Breach  the  white  walls  about  them.  —  would  that  I 

Could  find  out  some  sweet  charm  wherewith  to  buy 

A  too  uneasy  conscience,  —  then  would  Rest 

Gather  and  fold  me  to  itself;  and  last, 

Forgetting  the  hereafter  and  the  past, 

My  soul  would  have  the  present  for  its  guest, 

And  grow  immortal. 

So,  my  little  fool, 
Thou  'rt  back  upon  the  water !     Lord !  how  vain 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


151 


The  strife  to  save  or  man  or  moth  from  pain 

Merited  justly,  —  having  thy  wild  way 

To  travel  all  the  air,  thou  comest  here 

To  try  with  spongy  feet  the  treacherous  pool ; 

Well,  thou  at  least  hast  made  one  truth  more  clear,  — 

Men  make  their  fate,  and  do  not  fate  obey. 


fef 


152  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


GOOD  AND   EVIL. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones. 

JULIUS  C.KSAR. 

ONCE  when  the  messenger  that  stays 

For  all,  beside  me  stood, 
I  mused  on  what  great  Shakspeare  says 

Of  evil  and  of  good. 

And  shall  the  evil  I  have  done 

Live  after  me  ?  I  said ; 
When  lo  I  a  splendor  like  the  sun 

Shone  round  about  my  bed. 

And  a  sweet  spirit  of  the  skies 

Near  me,  yet  all  apart, 
In  whispers  like  the  low  wind's  sighs, 

Spake  to  my  listening  heart ; 

Saying,  your  poet,  reverenced  thus, 
For  once  hath  been  unwise; 

The  good  we  do  lives  after  us, 
The  evil  't  is  that  dies ! 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Evil  is  earthy,  of  the  earth, — 
A  thing  of  pain  and  crime, 

That  scarcely  sends  a  shadow  forth 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 

But  good,  in  substance,  dwells  above 

This  discontented  sphere, 
Extending  only,  through  God's  love, 

Uncertain  shadows  here. 


154  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


STROLLER'S   SONG. 

THE  clouds  all  round  the  sky  are  black, 

As  it  never  would  shine  again ; 
But  I  '11  sling  my  wallet  over  my  back, 

And  trudge  in  spite  of  the  rain  I 

And  if  there  rise  no  star  to  guide 

My  feet  when  day  is  gone, 
I  '11  shift  my  wallet  the  other  side, 

And  trudge  right  on  and  on. 

For  this  of  a  truth  I  always  note, 

And  shape  my  course  thereby, 
That  Nature  has  never  an  overcoat 

To  keep  her  furrows  dry. 

And  how  should  the  hills  be  clothed   with  grain, 
The  vales  with  flowers  be  crowned, 

But  for  the  chain  of  the  silver  rain 
That  draws  them  out  of  the  ground ! 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  155 

So  I  will  trudge  with  heart  elate, 

And  feet  with  courage  shod, 
For  that  which  men  call  chance  and  fate 

Is  the  handiwork  of  God. 

There  's  time  for  the  night  as  well  as  the  morn, 

For  the  dark  as  the  shining  sky  ; 
The  grain  of  the  corn  and  the  flower  unborn 

Have  rights  as  we}]  as  I. 


1.56  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


A    LESSON. 

ONE  Autumn-time  I  went  into  the  woods 

When  Nature  grieves, 
And  wails  the  drying  up  of  the  bright  floods 

Of  Summer  leaves. 

The  rose  had  drawn  the  green  quilt  of  the  grass 

Over  her  head, 
And,  taking  off  her  pretty,  rustling  dress, 

Had  gone  to  bed. 

And,  while  the  wind  went  ruffling  through  her  bower 

To  do  her  harm, 
She  lay  and  slept  away  the  frosty  hour, 

All  safe  and  warm. 

The  little  bird  that  came  when  May  was  new, 

And  sang  her  best, 
Had  gone, — I  put  my  double  hand  into 

Her  chilly  nest. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  157 

Then,  sitting  down  beneath  a  naked  tree, 

I  looked  about,  — 
Saying,  in  these,  if  there  a  lesson  be, 

I  '11  spy  it  out. 

And  presently  the  teaching  that  was  meant 

I  thought  I  saw,  — 
That  I,  in  trial,  should  patiently  consent 

To  God's  great  law. 


158  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


O^    SKEfNG  A  WILD   BIRD. 

BEAUTIFUL  symbol  of  a  freer  life, 

Knowing  no  purpose,  and  yet  true  to  one ; 
Would  I  could  learn  thy  wisdom,  I  who  ran 

This  way  and  that,  striving  against  my  strife. 

No  fancy  vague,  no  object  half  unknown, 

Diverts  thee  from  thyself.     By  stops  and  starts 
I  live  the  while  by  little  broken  parts 

A  thousand  lives, — not  one  of  all,  my  own. 

Thou  sing'st  thy  full  heart  out,  and  low  or  high 
Flyest  at  pleasure ;  who  of  us  can   say 
He  lives  his  inmost  self  e'en  for  a  day, 

And  does  the  thing  he  would  ?  alas,  not  I. 

We  hesitate,  go  backward,  and  return, 

And  when  the  earth  with  living  sunshine  gleams 
We  make  a  darkness  round  us  with  our  dreams, 

And  wait  for  that  which  we  ourselves  should  earn. 

For  we  shall  work  out  answers  to  our  needs 

If  we  have  continuity  of  will 

To  hold  our  shifting  purposes  until 
They  germinate,  and  bring  forth  fruit  in  deeds. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  159 

We  ask  and  hope  too  much,  — too  lightly  press 
Toward  the  end  sought,  and  haply  learn,  at  length, 
That  we  have  vainly  dissipated  strength 

Which,  concentrated,  would  have  brought  success. 

But  Truth  is  sure,  and  can  afford  to  wait 
Our  slow  perception,  (error  ebbs  and  flows  ;) 
Her  essence  is  eternal,  and  she  knows 

The  world  must  swing  round  to  her,  soon  or  late. 


160  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


RICH,  THOUGH  POOR. 

RED  In  the  east  the  morning  broke, 

And  in  three  chambers  three  men  woke  ; 

One  through  curtains  wove  that  night 

In  the  loom  of  the  spider,  saw  the  light 

Lighting  the  rafters  black  and  old, 

And  sighed  for  the  genii  to  make  them  gold. 

One  in  a  chamber,  high  and  fair, 
With  panelled  ceilings,  enamelled  rare, 
On  the  purple  canopy  of  his  bed 
Saw  the  light  with  a  sluggard's  dread, 
And  buried  his  sullen  and  sickly  face 
Deep  in  his  pillow  fringed  with  lace. 

One,  from  a  low  and  grassy  bed, 

With  the  golden  air  for  a  coverlet ; 

No  ornaments  had  he  to  wear 

But  his  curling  beard  and  his  coal-black  hair ; 

His  wealth  was  his  acres,  and  oxen  twain, 

And  health  was  his  cheerful  chr.mberlain. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  16] 

Night  fell  stormy  —  "  Woe  Is  me  !  " 
Sighed  so  wearily  two  of  the  three  ; 
"  The  corn  I  planted  to-day  will  sprout," 
Said  one,  "  and  the  roses  be  blushing  out ;  " 
And  his  heart  with  its  joyful  hope  o'erran : 
Think  you  he  was  the  poorest  man? 


162  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


SIXTEEN. 

SUPPOSE  your  hand  with  power  supplied,  — 
Say,  would  you  slip  it  'neath  my  hair. 

And  turn  it  to  the  golden  side 

Of  sixteen  years  ?     Suppose  you  dare  ? 

And  I  stood  here  with  smiling  mouth, 
Red  cheeks,  and  hands  all  softly  white, 

Exceeding  beautiful  with  youth, 

And  that  some  sly,  consenting  sprite, 

Brought  dreams  as  bright  as  dreams  can  be, 
To  keep  the  shadows  from  my  brow, 

And  plucked  down  hearts  to  pleasure  me, 
As  you  would  roees  from  a  bough ; 

What  could  I  do  then  ?    idly  wear  — 
While  all  my  mates  went  on  before  — 

The  bashful  looks  and  golden  hair 
Of  sixteen  years,  and  nothing  more  ' 

Nay,  done  with  youth  is  my  desire, 
To  Time  I  give  no  false  abuse, 

Experience  is  the  marvellous  fire 
That  welds  our  knowledge  into  use. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  163 

And  all  its  fires  of  heart,  or  brain, 

Where  purpose  into  power  was  wrought, 

I  'd  bear,  and  gladly  bear  again, 

Rather  than  be  put  back  one  thought. 

So  sigh  no  more,  my  gentle  friend, 
That  I  have  reached  the  time  of  day 

When  white  hairs  come,  and  heart-beats  send 
No  blushes  through  the  cheeks  astray. 

For,  could  you  mould  my  destiny 

As  clay  within  your  loving  hand, 
I  'd  leave  my  youth's  sweet  company, 

And  suffer  back  to  where  I  stand. 


164  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


PRAYER   FOR   LIGHT. 

O  WHAT  is  Thy  will  toward  us  mortals, 

Most  Holy  and  High? 
Shall  we  die  unto  life  while  we  're  living  ? 

O 

Or  live  while  we  die  ? 

Can  we  serve  Thee  and  wait  on  Thee  only 

In  cells,  dark  and  low  ? 
Must  the  altars  we  build  Thee  be  built  with 

The  stones  of  our  woe  ? 

Shall  we  only  attain  the  great  measures 

Of  grace  and  of  bliss 
In  the  life  that  awaits  us,  by  cruelly 

Warring  on  this  ? 

Or,  may  we  still  watch  while  we  work,  and 

Be  glad  while  we  pray  ? 
So  reverent,  we  cast  the  poor  shows  of 

Our  reverence  away  ! 

Shall  the  nature  Thou  gav'st  us,  pronouncing  it 

Good,  and  not  ill, 
Be  warped  by  our  pride  or  our  passion 

Outside  of  Thy  will  ? 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Shall  the  sins  which  we  do  in  our  blindness 

Thy  mercy  transcend, 
And  drag  us  down  deeper  and  deeper 

Through  worlds  without  end  ? 

Or,  are  we  stayed  back  in  sure  limits, 

And  Thou,  high  above, 
O'erruling  our  trials  for  our  triumph, 

Our  hatreds  for  love? 

And  is  each  soul  rising,  though  slowly, 

As  onward  it  fares, 
And  are  life's  good  things  and  its  evil 

The  steps  in  the  stairs  ? 

All  day  with  my  heart  and  my  spirit, 

In  fear  and  in  awe, 
I  strive  to  feel  out  through  my  darkness 

Thy  light  and  Thy  law. 

And  this,  when  the  sun  from  his  shining 

Goes  sadly  away, 
And  the  moon  looketh  out  of  her  chamber, 

Is  all  I  can  say  ; 

That  He   who  foresaw  of  transgression 

The  might  and  the  length, 
Has  fashioned  the  law  to  exceed  not 

Our  poor  human  strength  ! 


166  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES 


THE  UNCUT  LEAF. 

You  think  I  do  not  love  you  !     Why, 
Because  I  have  my  secret  grief? 

Because  in  reading  I  pass  by, 
Time  and  again,  the  uncut  leaf? 

One  rainy  night  you  read  to  me 

In  some  old  book,  I  know  not  what, 

About  the  woods  of  Eldersie, 

And  a  great  hunt  —  I  have  forgot 

What  all  the  story  was  —  ah,  well, 
It  touched  me,  and  I  felt  the  pain 

With  which  the  poor  dumb  creature  fell 
To  his  weak  knees,  then  rose  again, 

And  shuddering,   dying,  turned  about, 
Lifted  his  antlered  head  in  pride, 

And  from  his  wounded  face  shook  out 
The  bloody  arrows  ere  he  died  ! 

That  night  I  almost  dared,  I  think, 
To  cut  the  leaf,  and  let  the  sun 

Shine  in  upon  the  mouldy  ink,  — 
You  ask  me  why  it  was  not  done. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Because  I  rather  feel  than  know 
The  truth  which  every  soul  receives 

From  kindred  souls,  that  long  ago 

You  read  me  through  the  double  leaves  ! 

So  pray  you,  leave  my  tears  to  blot 
The  record  of  my  secret  grief, 

And  though  I  know  you  know,  seem  not 
Ever  to  see  the  uncut  leaf. 


167 


168  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


THE  MIGHT  OF  TRUTH. 

WE  are  proclaimed,  even  against  our  wills  — 
If  we  are  silent,  then  our  silence  speaks  — 

Children  from  tumbling  on  the  summer-hills 
Come  home  with  roses  rooted  in  their  cheeks. 

I  think  no  man  can  make  his  lie  hold  good,  — 

One  way  or  other,  truth  is  understood. 

The  still  sweet  influence  of  a  life  of  prayer 

Quickens  their  hearts  who  never  bow  the  knee,  — 

So  come  fresh  draughts  of  living  inland  air 
To  weary  homesick  men,  far  out  at  sea. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  O  man,  and  lo  ! 

His  light  shall,  like  a  garment,  round  thee  flow. 

The  selfishness  that  with  our  lives  has  grown, 
Though  outward  grace  its  full  expression  bar, 

Will  crop  out  here  and  there  like  belts  of  stone 
From  shallow  soil,  discovering  what  we  are. 

The  thing  most  specious  cannot  stead  the  true,  — 

Who  would  appear  clean,  must  be  clean  all   through 


THOUGHTS   AND    THEORIES. 

In  vain  doth  Satan  say,  "  My  heart  is  glad, 
I  wear  of  Paradise  the  morning  gem ; " 

While  on  his  brow,  magnificently  sad, 
Hangs  like  a  crag  his  blasted  diadem. 

Still  doth  the  truth  the  hollow  lie  invest, 

And  all  the  immortal  ruin  stands  confessed. 


169 


170  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


COUNSEL. 

THOUGH  sin  hath  marked  thy  brother's  brow, 

Love  him  in  sin's  despite, 
But  for  his  darkness,  haply  thou 

Hadst  never  known  the  light. 

Be  thou  an  angel  to  his  life, 

And  not  a  demon  grim, — 
Since  with  himself  he  is  at  strife, 

O  be  at  peace  with  him. 

Speak  gently  of  his  evil  ways 

And  all  his  pleas  allow, 
For  since  he  knows  not  why  he  strays 

From  virtue,  how  shouldst  thou? 

Love  him,  though  all  thy  love  he  slights, 

For  ah,  thou  canst  not  say 
But  that  his  prayerless  days  and  nights 

Have  taught  thee  how  to  pray. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  171 

Outside  themselves  all  things  have  laws, 

The  atom  and  the  sun, — 
Thou  art  thyself,  perhaps,  the  cause 

Of  sins  which  he  has  done. 

If  guiltless  thou,  why  surely  tlien 

Thy  place  is  by  his  side, — 
It  was  for  sinners,  not  just  men, 

That  Christ  the  Saviour  died. 


THE   LITTLE   BLACKSMITH. 

WE  heard  his  hammer  all  day  long 

On  the  anvil  ring  and  ring, 
But  he  always  came  when  the  sun  went  down 

To  sit  on  the  gate  and  sing. 

His  little  hands  so  hard  and  brown 

Crossed  idly  on  his  knee, 
And  straw-hat  lopping  over  cheeks 

As  red  as  they  could  be  ; 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  173 

His  blue  and  faded  jacket  trimmed 

With  signs  of  work,  —  his  feet 
All  bare  and  fair  upon  the  grass, 

He  made  a  picture  sweet. 

For  still  his  shoes,  with  iron  shod, 

On  the  smithy-wall  he  hung; 
As  forth  he  came  when  the  sun  went  down, 

And  sat  on  the  gate  and  sung. 

The  whistling  rustic  tending  cows, 

Would  keep  in  pastures  near, 
And  half  the  busy  villagers 

Lean  from  their  doors  to  hear. 

And  from  the  time  the  bluebirds  came 

And  made  the  hedges  bright, 
Until  the  stubble  yellow  grew, 

He  never  missed  a  night. 

The  hammer's  stroke  on  the  anvil  filled 

His  heart  with  a  happy  ring, 
And  that  was  why,  when  the  sun  went  down, 

He  came  to  the  gate  to  sing. 


174  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


TWO  TRAVELLERS. 

Two  travellers,  meeting  by  the  way, 

Arose,  and  at  the  peep  of  day 

Brake  bread,  paid  reckoning,  and  they  say 

Set  out  together,  and  so  trode 
Till  where  upon  the  forking  road 
A  gray  and  good  old  man  abode. 

There  each  began  his  heart  to  strip, 
And  all  that  light  companionship 
That  cometh  of  the  eye  and  lip 

Had  sudden  end,  for  each  began 
To  ask  the  gray  and  good  old  man 
Whither  the  roads  before  them  ran. 

One,  as  they  saw,  was  shining  bright, 
With  such  a  great  and  gracious  light, 
It  seemed  that  heaven  must  be  in  sight. 

"  This,"  said  the  old  man,  "  doth  begin 
Full  sweetly,  but  its  end  is  in 
The  dark  and  desert-place  of  sin. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  175 

"And  this,  that  seemeth  all  to  lie 
In  gloomy  shadow,  —  by-and-by, 
Maketh  the  gateway  of  the  sky. 

"  Bide  ye  a  little  ;  fast  and  pray, 
And  'twixt  the  good  and  evil  way, 
Choose  ye,  my  brethren,  this  day." 

And  as  the  day  was  at  the  close 

The  two  wayfaring  men  arose, 

And  each  the  road  that  pleased  him  chose. 

One  took  the  pathway  that  began 
So  brightly,  and  so  smoothly  ran 
Through  flowery  fields,  —  deluded  man  ! 

Ere  long  he  saw,  alas !  alas ! 

All  darkly,  and  as  through  a  glass, 

Flames,  and  not  flowers,  along  the  grass. 

Then  shadows  round  about  him  fell, 
And  in  his  soul  he  knew  full  well 
His  feet  were  taking  hold  on  hell. 

He  tried  all  vainly  to  retrace 

His  pathway ;  horrors  blocked  the  place, 

And  demons  mocked  him  to  his  face. 


176  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Broken  in  spirit,  crushed  in  pride, 
One  morning  by  the  highway-side 
He  fell,  and  all  unfriended,  died. 

The  other,  after  fast  and  prayer, 
Pursued  the  road  that  seemed  less  fair, 
And  peace  went  with  him,  unaware. 

And  when  the  old  man  saw  where  lay 
The  traveller's  choice,  he  said,  "  I  pray, 
Take  this  to  help  you  on  the  way;" 

And  gave  to  him  a  lovely  book, 
Wherein  for  guidance  he  must  look, 
He  told  him,  if  the  path  should  crook. 

And  so,  through  labyrinths  of  shade, 
When  terror  pressed,  or  doubt  dismayed, 
He  walked  in  armor  all  arrayed. 

So,  over  pitfalls  travelled  he, 
And  passed  the  gates  of  harlotry, 
Safe  with  his  heavenly  company. 

And  when  the  road  did  low  descend, 
He  found  a  good  inn,  and  a  friend, 
And  made  a  comfortable  end. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  177 


THE   BLIND  TRAVELLER. 

A  POOR  blind  man  was  travelling  one  day, 

The  guiding  staff  from  out  his  hand  was  gone, 

And  the  road  crooked,  so  he  lost  his  way, 

And  the  night  fell,  and  a  great  storm  came  on. 

He  was  not,  therefore,  troubled  and  afraid, 
Nor  did  he  vex  the  silence  with  his  cries, 

But  on  the  rainy  grass  his  cheek  he  laid, 
And  waited  for  the  morning  sun  to  rise. 

Saying  to  his  heart,  —  Be  still,  my  heart,  and  wait, 
For  if  a  good  man  happen  to  go  by, 

He  will  not  leave  us  to  our  dark  estate 
And  the  cold  cover  of  the  storm,  to  die  ; 

But  he  will  sweetly  take  us  by  the  hand, 

And  lead  us  back  into  the  straight  highway  ; 

Full  soon  the  clouds  will  have  evanished,  and 
All  the  wide  east  be  blazoned  with  the  day. 
23 


ITS  THOUGHTS  AND  THEORIES. 

And  we  are  like  that  blind  man,  all  of  us,  — 
Benighted,  lost !     But  while  the  storm  doth  fall 

Shall  we  not  stay  our  sinking  hearts  up,  thus,  — 
Above  us  there  is  One  who  sees  it  all  ; 

And  if  His  name  be  Love,  as  we  are  told, 
He  will  not  leave  us  to  unequal  strife  ; 

But  to  that  city  with  the  streets  of  gold 
Bring  us,  and  give  us  everlasting  life. 


THOUGHTS   AND    THEORIES. 


THE   BLACKBIRD. 

"  I  could  not  think  so  plain  a  bird 
Could  sing  so  fine  a  song." 

ONE  on  another  against  the  wall 

Pile  up  the  books,  —  I  am  done  with  them  all  I 

I  shall  be  wise,  if  I  ever  am  wise, 

Out  of  my  own  ears,  and  of  my  own  eyes. 

One  day  of  the  woods  and  their  balmy  light, — 

One  hour  on  the  top  of  a  breezy  hill, 
Where  in  the  sassafras  all  out  of  sight 

The  blackbird  is  splitting  his  slender  bill 
For  the  ease  of  his  heart ! 

Do  you  think  if  he  said 

I  will  sing  like  this  bird  with  the  mud-colored  back 
And  the  two  little  spots  of  gold  over  his  eyes, 
Or  like  to  this  shy  little  creature  that  flies 
So  low  to  the  ground,  with  the  amethyst  rings 
About  her  small  throat,  —  all  alive  when  she  sings 
With  a  glitter  of  shivering  green,  —  for  the  rest, 
Gray  shading  to  gray,  with  the  sheen  of  her  breast 
Half  rose  and  half  fawn,  — 


180  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Or  like  this  one  so  proud, 
That  flutters  so  restless,  and  cries  out  so  loud, 
With  stiff  horny  beak  and  a  topknotted  head, 
And  a  lining  of  scarlet  laid  under  his  wings, — 
Do  you  think,  if  he  said,  "  I  'm  ashamed  to  be  black  ! ' 
That  he  could  have  shaken  the  sassafras-tree 
As  he  does  with  the  song  he  was  born  to  ?  not  he ! 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  181 


MY   GOOD  ANGEL. 

VERY  simple  are  my  pleasures, — 
O  good  angel,  stay  with  me, 
While  I  number  what  they  be,  — 

Easy  't  is  to  count  my  treasures. 

Easy  't  is,  —  they  are  not  many  : 
Friends  for  love  and  company, 
O  good  angel  grant  to  me ; 

Strength  to  work ;  and  is  there  any 

Man  or  woman,  evil  seeing 
In  my  daily  walk  and  way, 
Grant,  and  give  me  grace  to  pray 

For  a  less  imperfect  being. 

Grant  a  larger  light,  and  better, 
To  inform  my  foe  and  me, 
So  we  quickly  shall  agree  ; 

Grant  forgiveness  to  my  debtor. 


182  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Make  my  heart,  I  pray,  of  kindness 
Always  full,  as  clouds  of  showers; 

Keep  my  mortal  eyes  from  blindness; 
I  would  see  the  sun  and  flowers. 

From  temptation  pray  deliver ; 

And,  good  angel,  grant  to  me 
That  my  heart  be  grateful  ever : 

Herein  all  my  askings  be. 


THOUGHT*  AND   THEORIES.  183 


MORE   LIFE. 

WHEN  spring-time  prospers  in  the  grass, 
And  fills  the  vales  with  tender  bloom, 

And  light  winds  whisper  as  they  pass 
Of  sunnier  days  to  come  : 

In  spite  of  all  the  joy  she  brings 

To  flood  and  field,  to  hill  and  grove, 

This  is  the  song  my  spirit  sings,  — 
More  light,  more  life,  more  love  1 

And  when,  her  time  fulfilled,  she  goes 
So  gently  from  her  vernal  place, 

And  meadow  wide  and  woodland  glows 
With  sober  summer  grace : 

When  on  the  stalk  the  ear  is  set, 
With  all  the  harvest  promise  bright, 

My  spirit  sings  the  old  song  yet,  — 
More  love,  more  life,  more  light ! 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


When  stubble  takes  the  place  of  grain, 
And  shrunken  streams  steal  slow  along, 

And  all  the  faded  woods  complain 
Like  one  who  suffers  wrong  ; 


When  fires  are  lit,  and  everywhere 
The  pleasures  of  the  household  rife, 

My  song  is  solemnized  to  prayer,  — 
More  love,  more  light,  more  life  ! 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  185 


CONTRADICTORY. 

WE  contradictory  creatures 
Have  something  in  us  alien  to  our  birth, 
That  doth  suffuse  us  with  the  infinite, 

While  downward  through  our  natures 
Run  adverse  thoughts,  that  only  find  delight 

In  the  poor,  perishable  things  of  earth. 

Blindly  we  feel  about 
Our  little  circle,  —  ever  on  the  quest 
Of  knowledge,  which  is  only,  at  the  best, 
Pushing  the  boundaries  of  our  ignorance  out. 

But  while  we  know  all  things  are  miracles, 

And  that  we  cannot  set 
A.n  ear  of  corn,  nor  tell  a  blade  of  grass 
The  way  to  grow,  our  vanity  o'erswells 
The  limit  of  our  wisdom,  and  we  yet 

Audaciously  o'erpass 

This  narrow  promontory 
Of  low,  dark  land,  into  the  unseen  glory, 

And  with  unhallowed  zeal 
Unto  our  fellow-men  God's  judgments  deal. 
24 


186  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Sometimes  along  the  gloom 

We  meet  a  traveller,  striking  hands  with  whom, 
Maketh  a  little  sweet  and  tender  light 

To  bless  our  sight, 

And  change  the  clouds  around  us  and  above 
Into  celestial  shapes,  —  and  this  is  love. 

Morn  cometh,  trailing  storms, 
Even  while  she  wakes  a  thousand  grateful  psalms. 

And  with  her  golden  calms 

All  the  wide  valley  fills ; 

Darkly  they  lie  below 

The  purple  fire,  —  the  glow, 
Where,  on  the  high  tops  of  the  eastern  hills, 

She  rests  her  cloudy  arms. 

And  we  are  like  the  morning,  —  heavenly  light 

Blowing  about  our  heads,  and  th'  dumb  night 

Before  us  and  behind  us ;  ceaseless  ills 

Make  up  our  years ;  and  as  from  off  the  hills 

The  white  mists  melt,  and  leave  them  bare  and  rough, 

So  melt  from  us  the  fancies  of  our  youth 

Until  we  stand  against  the  last  black  truth 

Naked,  arid  cold,  and  desolate  enough. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  187 


THIS   IS   ALL. 

TRYING,  trying  —  always  trying  — 
Falling  down  to  save  a  fall ; 

Living  by  the  dint  of  dying, — 
This  is  all! 

'Giving,  giving — always  giving  — 
Gathering  just  abroad  to  cast ; 

Dying  by  the  dint  of  living 
At  the  last! 

Sighing,  smiling  —  smiling,  sighing  - 
Sun  in  shade,  and  shade  in  sun  ; 

Dying,  living  —  living,  dying  — 
Both  in  one ! 

Hoping  in  our  very  fearing, 

Striving  hard  against  our  strife  ; 

Drifting  in  the  stead  of  steering,  — 
This  is  life  ! 


188  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Seeming  to  believe  in  seeming, 
Half  disproving,  to  approve  ; 

Knowing  that  we  dream,  in  dreaming, 
This  is  love  ! 

Being  in  our  weakness  stronger,  — 
Living  where  there  is  no  breath ; 

Feeling  harm  can  harm  no  longer,— 
This  is  death 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  189 


IN  VAIN. 

DOWN  the  peach-tree  slid 

The  milk-white  drops  of  th'  dew, 

All  in  that  merry  time  of  th'  year 
When  the  worl(J  is  made  anew. 

The  daisy  dressed  in  white, 
The  paw-paw  flower  in  brown, 

And  th'  violet  sat  by  her  lover,  th'  brook, 
With  her  golden  eyelids  down. 

Gayly  its  own  best  hue 

Shone  in  each  leaf  and  stem,  — 
Gayly  the  children  rolled  on  th'  grass, 

With  their  shadows  after  them. 

I  said,  Be  sweet  for  me, 

0  little  wild  flowers !  for  I 

Have  larger  need,  and  shut  in  myself, 

1  wither  and  waste  and  die  ! 


190  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Pity  me,  sing  for  me  I 

I  cried  to  the  tuneful  bird  ; 

My  heart  is  full  of  th'  spirit  of  song. 
And  I  cannot  sing  a  word ! 

Like  a  buried  stream  that  longs 

*  O 

Through  th'  upper  world  to  run, 
And  kiss  the  dawn  in  her  rosy  mouth, 
And  lie  in  th'  light  of  th'  sun  ; 

So  in  me,  is  my  soul, 

Wasting  in  darkness  the  hours, 

Ever  fretted  and  sullen  and  sad 
With  a  sense  of  its  unused  powers. 

In  vain  I  each  little  flower 

Must  be  sweet  for  itself,  nor  part 

With  its  white  or  brown,  and  every  bird 
Must  sing  from  its  own  full  heart. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  191 


BEST,  TO  THE   BEST. 

THE  wind  blows  where  it  listeth, 

Out  of  the  east  and  west, 
And  the  sinner's  way  is  as  dark  as  death, 

And  life  is  best,  to  the  best. 

The  touch  of  evil  corrupteth  ; 

Tarry  not  on  its  track  ; 
The  grass  where  the  serpent  crawls  is  stirred 

As  if  it  grew  on  his  back. 

To  know  the  beauty  of  cleanness 

The  heart  must  be  clean  and  sweet ; 

We  must  love  our  neighbor  to  get  his  lore, — 
As  we  measure,  he  will  mete. 

Cold  black  crusts  to  the  beggar, 

A  cloak  of  rags  and  woe ; 
And  the  furrows  are  warm  to  the  sower's  feet, 

And  his  bread  is  white  as  snow. 


192  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Can.  blind  eyes  see  the  even, 

As  he  hangs  on  th'  days'  soft  close, 

Like  a  lusty  boy  on  his  mother's  neck, 
Bright  in  the  face  as  a  rose? 

The  grave  is  cold  and  cruel,  — 

Rest,  pregnant  with  unrest  ; 
And  woman  must  moan  and  man  must  groan  ; 

But  life  is  best,  to  the  best. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  1<)3 


THORNS. 

I  DO  not  think  the  Providence  unkind 

That  gives  its  bad  things  to  this  life  of  ours ; 

They  are  the  thorns  whereby  we,  travellers  blind, 
Feel  out  our  flowers. 

I  think  hate  shows  the  quality  of  love,  — 

That  wrong  attests  that  somewhere  there  is  right 

Do  not  the  darkest  shadows  serve  to  prove 
The  power  of  light? 

On  tyrannous  ways  the  feet  of  Freedom  press  ; 

The  green  bough  broken  off,  lets  sunshine  in  ; 
And  where  sin  is,  aboundeth  righteousness, 

Much  more  than  sin. 

Man   cannot  be  all  selfish  ;  separate  good 
Is  nowhere  found  beneath  the  shining  sun  . 

All  adverse  interests,  truly  understood, 
Resolve  to  one  ! 

25 


194 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORfEfi. 


I  do  believe  all  worship  doth  ascend, — 

Whether  from  temple  floors  by  heathen  trod, 

Or  from  the  shrines  where  Christian  praises  blend, 
To  the  true  God, 

Blessed  forever :  that  His  love  prepares 

The  raven's  food  ;  the  sparrow's  fall  doth  see  ; 

And,  simple,  sinful  as  I  am,  He  cares 
Even  for  me. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  195 


OLD   ADAM. 

THE  wind  is  blowing  cold  from  the  west, 

And  your  hair  is  gray  and  thin  ; 
Come  in,  old  Adam,  and  shut  the  door,  — 

Come  in,  old  Adam,  come  in  ! 
"  The  wind  is  blowing  out  o'  the  west, 

Cold,  cold,  and  my  hair  is  thin  ; 
But  it  is  not  there,  that  face  so  fair, 

And  why  should  I  go  in  ?  " 

The  wind  is  blowing  cold  from  the  west  ; 

The  day  is  almost  gone  ; 
The  cock  is  abed,  the  cattle  fed, 

And  the  night  is  coming  on  ! 
Come  in,  old  Adam,  and  shut  the  door, 

And  leave  without  your  care. 
"  Nay,  nay,  for  the  sun  of  my  life  is  down, 

And  the  night  is  everywhere." 

The  cricket  chirps,  and  your  chair  is .  set 
Where  the  fire  shines  warm  and  clear ; 


196  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES 

Come  in,  old  Adam,  and  you  will  forget 
It  is  not  the  spring  o'  the  year. 

Come  in  !  the  wind  blows  wild  from  the  west, 
And  your  hair  is  gray  and  thin. 

"  'T  is  not  there  now,  that  sweet,  sweet  brow, 
And  why  should  I  go  in  ?  " 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER. 

HER  voice  was  tender  as  a  lullaby, 

Making  you  think  of  milk-white  dews  that  creep 
Among  th'  mid-May  violets,  when  they  lie, 

All  in  the  yellow  moonlight  fast  asleep. 

Ay,  tender  as  that  most  melodious  tone 

The  lark  has,  when  within  some  covert  dim 

With  leaves,  he  talks  with  morning  all  alone, 
Persuading  her  to  rise  and  come  to  him. 

O 

Shy  in  her  ways  ;  her  father's  cattle  knew  — 
No  neighbor  half  so  well  —  her  footstep  light, 

For  by  the  pond  where  mint  and  mallows  grew 
Always  she  came  and  called  them  home  at  night 


198  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

A  sad,  low  pond  that  cut  the  field  in  two 
Wherein  they  ran,  and  never  billow  sent 

To  play  with  any  breeze,  but  still  withdrew 
Into  itself,  in  wrinkled,  dull  content. 

And  here,  through  mint  and  mallows  she  would  stray, 
Musing  the  while  she  called,  as.  it  might  be 

On  th'  cold  clouds,  or  winds  that  with  rough  gray 
Shingled  the  landward  slope  of  the  near  sea. 

God  knows  I  not  I,  on  what  she  mused  o'  nights 
Straying  about  the  pond  :  she  had  no  woe 

To  think  upon,  they  said,  nor  such  delights 
As  maids  are  wont  to  hide.     I  only  know 

We  do  not  know  the  weakness  or  the  worth 
Of  any  one :  th'  Sun  as  he  will  may  trim 

His  golden  lights  ;  he  cannot  see  the  earth 
He  loves,  but  on  the  side  she  turns  to  him. 

I  only  know  that  when  this  lonesome  pond 

Lifted  the  buried  lilies  from  its  breast 
One  warm,  wet  day  (I  nothing  know  beyond), 

It  lifted  her  white  face  up  with  the  rest. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  19S 


A   PRAYER. 

I  HAVE  been  little  used  to  frame 

Wishes  to  speech  and  call  it  prayer  ; 

To-day,  my  Father,  in  Thy  name, 
I  ask  to  have  my  soul  stript  bare 

Of  all  its  vain  pretence, — to  see 

Myself,  as  1  am  seen  by  Thee. 

I  want  to  know  how  much  the  pain 
And  passion  here,  its  powers  abate  ; 

To  take  its  thoughts,  a  tangled  skein, 

And  stretch  them  out  all  smooth  and  straight ; 

To  track  its  wavering  course  through  sin 

And  sorrow,  to  its  origin. 

I  want  to  know  if  in  the  night 

Of  evil,  grace  doth  so  abound, 
That  from  its  darkness  we  draw  light, 

.  As  flowers  do  beauty  from  the  ground  ; 
Or,  if  the  sins  of  time  shall  be 
The  shadows  of  eternity. 


200  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

I  want,  though  only  for  an  hour, 
To  be  myself,  —  to  get  more  near 

The  wondrous  mystery  and  power 
Of  love,  whose  echoes  floating  here, 

Between  us  and  the  waiting  grave, 

Make  all  of  light,  of  heaven,  we  have. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  201 


ALONE. 

WHAT  shall  I  do  when  I  stand  in  my  place, 
Unclothed  of  this  garment  of  cloud  and  dust, 
Unclothed  of  this  garment  of  selfish  lust, 

With  my  Maker,  face  to  face  ! 

What  shall  I  say  for  my  worldly  pride? 

What  for  the  things  I  have  done  and  not  done? 

There  will  be  no  cloud  then  over  the  sun, 
And  no  grave  wherein  to  hide. 

No  time  for  waiting,  no  time  for  prayer,  — 
No  friend  that  with  me  my  life-path  trod 
To  help  me,  —  only  my  soul  and  my  God, 

And  all  my  sins  laid  bare. 

No  dear  human  pity,  no  low  loving  speech, 
About  me  that  terrible  day  shall  there  be  ; 
Remitted  back  into  myself,  I  shall  see 

All  sweetest  things  out  of  reach. 

But  why  should  I  tremble  before  tli'  unknown, 

And  put  off  the  blushing  and  shame  ?     Now,  —  to-day 
The  friend  close  beside  me  seems  far,  far  away, 

And  I  stand  at  God's  judgment  alone  ! 
26 


202  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


SOMETIMES. 

SOMETIMES  for  days 

Along  the  fields  that  I  of  time  have  leased, 
I  go,  nor  find  a  single  leaf  increased  ; 

And  hopeless,  graze 
With  forehead  stooping  downward  like  a  beast. 

O  heavy  hours ! 

My  life  seems  all  a  failure,  and  I  sigh, 
What  is  there  left  for  me   to  do,  but   die  ? 

So  small  my  powers 
That  I  can  only  stretch  them  to  a  cry  I 

But  while  I  stretch 

What  strength  I  have,  though  only  to  a  cry, 
I  gain  an  utterance  that  men  know  me  by  ; 

Create,  and  fetch 
A  something  out  of  chaos,  —  that  is  I. 

Good  comes  to  pass 

We  know  not  when  nor  how,  for,  looking  to 
What  seemed  a  barren  waste,  there  starts  to  view 

Some  bunch  of  grass, 
Or  snarl  of  violets,  shining  with  the  dew. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

I  do  believe 

The  very  impotence  to  pray,  is  prayer ; 
The  hope  that  all  will  end,  is  in  despair, 

And  while  we  grieve, 
Comfort  abideth  with  us,  unaware. 


203 


204  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


THE   SEA-SIDE   CAVE. 

'A  bird  of  the   air  shall  carry  the  voice,  and  that  which  hath  wings   shall 
tell  the  matter." 

AT    he  dead  of  night  by  the  side  of  the  Sea 
I  met  my  gray-haired  enemy, — 
The  glittering  light  of  his  serpent  eye 
Was  all  I  had  to  see  him  by. 

At  the  dead  of  night,  and  stormy  weather 
We  went  into  a  cave  together,  — 
Into  a  cave  by  the  side  of  the  Sea, 
And  —  he  never  came  out  with  me  ! 

The  flower  that  up  through  the  April  mould 
Comes  like  a  miser  dragging  his  gold, 
Never  made  spot  of  earth  so  bright 
As  was  the  ground  in  the  cave  that  night. 

Dead  of  night,  and  stormy  weather  ! 
Who  should  see  us  going  together 
Under  the  black  and  dripping  stone 
Of  the  cave  from  whence  I  came  alone  ! 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Next  day  as  my  boy  sat  on  my  knee 
He  picked  the  gray  hairs  off  from  me, 
And  told  with  eyes  brimful  of  fear 
How  a  bird  in  the  meadow  near 

Over  her  clay-built  nest  had  spread 
Sticks  and  leaves  all  bloody  red, 
Brought  from  a  cave  by  the  side  of  the  Sea 
Where  some  murdered  man  must  be. 


206  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


JAXUARY. 

THE  year  has  lost  its  leaves  again, 
The  world  looks  old  and  grim  ; 

God  folds  his  robe  of  glory  thus, 
That  we  may  see  but  Him. 

And  all  his  stormy  messengers, 
That  come  with  whirlwind  breath, 

Beat  out  our  chaff  of  vanity, 
And  leave  the  grains  of  faith. 

We  will  not  feel,  while  summer  waits 

Her  rich  delights  to  share, 
What  sinners,  miserably  bad,  — 

How  weak  and  poor  we  are. 

We  tread  through  fields  of  speckled  flowers 

As  if  we  did  not  know 
Our  Father  made  them  beautiful, 

Because  He  loves  us  so. 

We  hold  his  splendors  in  our  hands 

As  if  we  held  the  dust, 
And  deal  his  judgment,  as  if  man 

Than  God  could  be  more  just. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  207 

Wo  seek,  in  prayers  and  penances, 

To  do  the  martyr's  part, 
Remembering  not,  the  promises 

Are  to  the  pure  in  heart. 

From  evil  and  forbidden  things, 

Some  good  we  think  to  win, 
And  to  the  last  analysis 

Experiment  with  sin. 

We  seek  no  oil  in  summer  time 

Our'  winter  lamp  to  trim, 
But  strive  to  bring  God  down  to  us, 

More  than  to  rise  to  Him. 

And  when  that  He  is  nearest,  most 

Our  weak  complaints  we  raise, 
Lacking  the  wisdom  to  perceive 

The  mystery  of  his  ways. 

For,  when  drawn  closest  to  himself, 

Then  least  his  love  we  mark  ; 
The  very  wings  that  shelter  us 

From  peril,  make  it  dark. 

Sometimes  He  takes  his  hands  from  us, 

When  storms  the  loudest  blow, 
That  we  may  learn  how  weak,  alone,  — > 

How  strong  in  Him,  we  grow. 


208  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Through  the  cross  iron  of  our  free  will 

el 

And  fate,  we  plead  for  light, 
As  if  God  gave  us  not  enough 
To  do  our  work  aright. 

We  will  not  see,  but  madly  take 
The  wrong  and  crooked  path, 

And  in  our  own  hearts  light  the  fires 
Of  a  consuming  wrath. 

The  fashion  of  his  Providence 
Our  Avay  is  so  above,  t 

We  serve  Him  most  who  take  the  most 
Of  his  exhaustless  love. 

We  serve  Him  in  the  good  we  do, 
The  blessings  we  embrace, 

Not  lighting  farthing  candles  for 
The  palace  of  his  grace. 

He  has  no  need  of  our  poor  aid 

His  purpose  to  pursue  ; 
'T  is  for  our  pleasure,  not  for  his, 

That  we  his  work  must  do. 

Then  blow,  O  wild  winds,  as  ye  list. 
And  let  the  world  look  grim,  — 

God  folds  his  robe  of  glory  thus 
That  we  may  see  but  Him. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  209 


THE  MEASURE  OF  TIME. 

A  BREATH,  like  the  wind's  breath,  may  carry 

A  name  far  and  wide, 
But  the  measure  of  time  does  not  tally 

With  any  man's  pride. 

'T  is  not  a  wild  chorus  of  praises, 

Nor  chance,  nor  yet  fate, — 
'T  is  the  greatness  born  with  him,  and  in  him, 

That  makes  the  man  great. 

And  when  in  the  calm  self-possession 

That  birthright  confers, 
The  man  is  stretched  out  to  her  measure, 

Fame  claims  him  for  hers. 

Too  proud  to  fall  back  on  achievement, 

With  work  in  his  sight, 
His  triumph  may  not  overtake  him 

This  side  of  the  night. 


*&• 


And  men,  with  his  honors  about  them, 

His  grave-mound  may  pass, 
Nor  dream  what  a  great  heart  lies  under 

Its  short  knotty  grass. 
27 


210  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

But  though  he  has  lived  thus  unprospered, 

And  died  thus,  alone, 
His  face  may  not  always  be  hid  by 

A  handbreadth  of  stone. 

The  long  years  are  wiser  than  any 

Wise  day  of  them  all, 
And  the  hero  at  last  shall  stand  upright,  — 

The  base  image  fall. 

The  counterfeit  may  for  a  season 

Deceive  the  wide  earth, 
But  the  lie,  waxing  great,  comes  to  labor. 

And  truth  has  its  birth. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  211 


IDLE    FEARS. 

IN  my  lost  childhood  old  folks  said  to  me, 

"  Now  is  the  time  and  season  of  your  bliss  ; 

All  joy  is  in  the  hope  of  joy  to  be, 

Not  in  possession  ;  and  in  after  years 

You  Avill  look  back  with  longing  sighs  and  tears 

To  the  young  days  when  you  from  care  were  free." 

It  was  not  true  ;  they  nurtured  idle  fears  ; 

I  never  saw  so  good  a  day  as  this  ! 

And  youth  and  I  have  parted  :   long  ago 
I  looked  into  my  glass,  and  saw  one  day 
A  little  silver  line  that  told  me  so  : 
At  first  I  shut  my  eyes  and  cried,  and  then 
I  hid  it  under  girlish  flowers,  but  when 
Persuasion  would  not  make  my  mate  to  stay, 
I  bowed  my  faded  head,  and  said,  "Amen!" 
And  all  my  peace  is  since  she  went  away. 

My  window  opens  toward  the  autumn  woods  ; 
I  see  the  ghosts  of  thistles  walk  the  air 
O'er  the  long,  level  stubble-land  that  broods  ; 
Beneath  the  herbless  rocks  that  jutting  lie, 


212  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Summer  has  gathered  her  white  family 
Of  shrinking  daisies  ;  all  the  hills  are  bare, 
And  in  the  meadows  not  a  limb  of  buds 
Through  the  brown  bushes  showeth  anywhere. 

Dear,  beauteous  season,  we  must  say  good-bye, 
And  can  afford  to,  we  have  been  so  blest, 
And  farewells  suit  the  time  ;  the  year  doth  lie 
With  cloudy  skirts  composed,  and  pallid  face 
Hid  under  yellow  leaves,  with  touching  grace, 
So  that  her  bright-haired  sweetheart  of  the  sky 
The  image  of  her  prime  may  not  displace. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  21S 


HINTS. 

Two  thirsty  travellers  chanced  one  day  to  meet 
Where  a  spring  bubbled  from  the  burning  sand ; 
One  drank  out  of  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 

And  found  the  water  very  cool  and  sweet. 

The  other  waited  for  a  smith  to  beat 
And  fashion  for  his  use  a  golden  cup  ; 

And  while  he  waited,  fainting  in  the  heat, 

The  sunshine  came  and  drank  the  fountain  up  ! 

In  a  green  field  two  little  flowers  there  were, 

O  * 

And  both  were  fair  in  th'  face  and  tender-eyed  ; 
One  took  the  light  and  dew  that  heaven  supplied, 
And  all  the  summer  gusts  were  sweet  with  her. 

The  other,  to  her  nature  false,  denied 
That  she  had  any  need  of  sun  and  dew, 
And  hung  her  silly  head,  and  sickly  grew, 

And  frayed  and  faded,  all  untimely  died. 


214  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

A  vine  o'  th'  bean,  that  had  been  early  wed 
To  a  tall  peach,  conceiving  that  he  hid 
Her  glories  from  the  world,  unwisely  slid 

Out  of  his  arms,  and  vainly  chafing,  said  : 

"  This  fellow  is  an  enemy  of  mine, 

And  dwarfs  me  with  his  shade  "  :   she  would  not   see 
That  she  was  made  a  vine,  and  not  a  tree, 

And  that  a  tree  is  stronger  than  a  vine. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  215 


TO  A   STAGNANT  RIVER. 

0  RIVER,  why  lie  with  your  beautiful  face 

To  the  hill  ?     Can  you  move  him  away  from  his  place  ? 
You  may  moan,  —  you  may    clasp   him    with   soft   arms 

forever,  — 
He  will  still  be  a  flinty  hill,  —  you  be  a  river. 

'T  is  wilful,  't  is  wicked  to  waste  in  despair 

The  treasure  so  many  are  dying  to  share  , 

The  gifts  that  we  have,  Heaven  lends  for  right  using, 

And  not  for  ignoring,  and  not  for  abusing. 

Let  the  moss  have  his  love,  and  the  grass  and  the  dew, — 
By  God's  law  he  cannot  be  mated  with  you. 
His  friend  is  the  stubble,  his  life  is  the  dust, 
You  are  not  what  you  would,  —  you  must  be  what   you 
must. 

If  into  his  keeping  your  fortune  you  cast, 

1  tell  you  the  end  will  be  hatred  at  last, 

Or  death  through  stagnation  ;  your  rest  is  in  motion ; 
The  aim  of  your  being,  the  cloud  and  the  ocean. 


216  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Love  cannot  be  love,  with  itself  set  at  strife  ; 

To  sin  against  Nature  is  death  and  not  life. 

You  may  freeze  in  the  shadow  or  seethe  in  the  sun, 

But  the  oil  and  the  water  will  not  be  at  one. 

Your  pride  and  your  peace,  when  this  passion  is  crossed 

Will  pay  for  the  struggle  whatever  it  cost  ; 

But  though  earth    dissolve,   though    the    heavens   should 

fall, 
To  yourself,  your  Creator,  be  true  first  of  all. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  217 


COUNSEL. 

SEEK  not  to  walk  by  borrowed  light, 

But  keep  unto  thine  own  : 
Do  what  thou  doest  with  thy  might, 

And  trust  thyself  alone ! 

Work  for  some  good,  nor  idly  lie 

Within  the  human  hive  ; 
And,  though  the  outward  man  should  die, 

Keep  thou  the  heart  alive  ! 

Strive  not  to  banish  pain  and  doubt, 

In  pleasure's  noisy  din  ; 
The  peace  thou  seekest  for  without 

Is  only  found  within. 

If  fortune  disregard  thy  claim, 

By  worth,  her  slight  attest ; 
Nor  blush  and  hang  the  head  for  shame 

When  thou  hast  done  thy  best. 
28 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

What  thy  experience  teaches  true, 

Be  vigilant  to  heed  ; 
The  wisdom  that  we  suffer  to, 

Is  wiser  than  a  creed. 

Disdain  neglect,  ignore  despair, 
On  loves  and  friendships  gone 

Plant  thou  thy  feet,  as  on  a  stairt 
And  mount  right  up  and  on  ! 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  219 


LATENT  LIFE. 

THOUGH  never  shown  by  word  or  deed, 
Within  us  lies  some  germ  of  power, 

As  lies  unguessed,  within  the  seed, 
The  latent  flower. 

And  under  every  common  sense 
That  doth  its  daily  use  fulfil, 

There  lies  another,  more  intense, 
And  beauteous  still. 

This  dusty  house,  wherein  is  shrined 
The  soul,  is  but  the  counterfeit 

Of  that  which  shall  be,  more  refined, 
And  exquisite. 

The  light  which  to  our  sight  belongs, 
Enfolds  a  light  more  broad  and  clear  ; 

Music  but  intimates  the  songs 
We  do  not  hear. 

The  fond  embrace,  the  tender  kiss 
Which  love  to  its  expression  brings, 

Are  but  the  husk  the  chrysalis 
Wears  on  its  wings. 


220  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

The  vigor  falling  to  decay, 

Hopes,  impulses  that  fade  and  die, 

Are  but  the  layers  peeled  away 
From  life  more  high. 

When  death  shall  come  and  disallow 
These  rough  and  ugly  masks  we  wear, 

I  think  that  we  shall  be  as  now,  — 
Only  more  fair. 

And  He  who  makes  his  love  to  be 
Always  around  me,  sure  and  calm, 

Sees  what  is  possible  to  me, 
Not  what  I  am. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  221 


HOW   AND   WHERE. 

How  are  we  living? 

Like  herbs  in  a  garden  that  stand  in  a  row, 
And  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stand  there  and  grow? 

Our  powers  of  perceiving 

So  dull  and  so  dead, 

They  simply  extend  to  the  objects  about  us,  — 
The  moth,  having  all  his  dark  pleasure  without  us,  — 

The  worm  in  his  bed ! 

If  thus  we  are  living, 

And  fading,  and  falling,  and  rotting,  alas !  — 
Like  the  grass,  or  the  flowers  that  grow  in  the  grass,  — 

Is  life  worth  our  having  ? 

The  insect  a-humming,  — 

The  wild  bird  is  better,  that  sings  as  it  flies,  — 
The  ox,  that  turns  up  his  great  face  to  the  skies, 

When  the  thunder  is  coming. 

Where  are  we  living? 

In  passion,  and  pain,  and  remorse  do  we  dwell,  — 
Creating,  yet  terribly  hating,  our  hell  ? 

No  triumph  achieving  ? 


222 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


No  grossness  refining  ? 

The  wild  tree  does  more  ;  for  his  coat  of  rough  barks 
He  trims  with  green  mosses,  and  checks  with  the  marks 


Of  the  long  summer  shining. 


We  're  dying,  not  living: 

Our  senses  shut  up,  and  our  hearts  faint  and  cold  ; 
Upholding  old  things  just  because  they  are  old; 

Our  good  spirits  grieving, 

We  suffer  our  springs 

Of  promise  to  pass  without  sowing  the  land, 
And  hungry  and  sad  in  the  harvest-time  stand, 

Expecting  good  things  ! 


THE   FELLED  TREE. 

THEY  set  me  up,  and  bade  me  stand 

Beside  a  dark,  dark  sea, 
In  the  befogged,  low-lying  land, 

Of  this  mortality. 

I  slipped  my  roots  round  the  stony  soil 
Like  rings  on  the  hand  of  a  bride, 

And  my  boughs  took  hold  of  the  summer's  smile 
And  grew  out  green  and  wide. 


224  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Crooked,  and  shaggy  on  all  sides, 

I  was  homeliest  of  trees, 
But  the  cattle  rubbed  their  speckled  hides 

Against  my  knotty  knees ; 

And  lambs,  in  white  rows  on  the  grass, 

Lay  down  within  my  shade  ; 
So  I  knew,  all  homely  as  I  was, 

For  a  good  use  I  was  made. 

And  my  contentment  served  me  well  ; 

My  heart  grew  strong  and  sweet, 
And  my  shaggy  bark  cracked  off  and  fell 

In  layers  at  my  feet. 

I  felt  when  the  darkest  storm  was  rife 
The  day  of  its  wrath  was  brief, 

And  that  I  drew  from  the   centre  of  life 
The  life  of  my  smallest  leaf. 

At  last  a  woodman  came  one  day 
With  axe  to  a  sharp  edge  ground, 

And  hewed  at  my  heart  till  I  stood  a-sway, 
But  I  never  felt  the  wound. 

I  knew  immortal  seed  was  sown 

Within  me  at  my  birth, 
And  I  fell  without  a  single  groan, 

With  my  green  face  to  the  earth. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Now  all  men  pity  me,  and  must, 

Who  see  me  lie  so  low, 
But  the  Power  that  changes  me  to  dust 

Is  the  same  that  made  me  grow. 


226 


•2!) 


226  THOUGHTS  AXD    THEORIES 


A  DREAM. 

I  DREAMED  I  had  a  plot  of  ground, 
Once  when  I  chanced  asleep  to  drop, 

And  that  a  green  hedge  fenced  it  round, 
Cloudy  with  roses  at  the  top. 

I  saw  a  hundred  mornings  rise, — 
So  far  a  little  dream  may  reach,  — 

And  Spring  with  Summer  in  her  eyes 
Making  the  chiefest  charm  of  each. 

A  thousand  vines  were  climbing  o'er 
The  hedge,  I  thought,  but  as  I  tried 

To  pull  them  down,  forevermore 

The  flowers  dropt  off  the  other  side  ! 

Waking,  I  said,  these  things  are  signs 
Sent  to  instruct  us  that  't  is  ours 

Duly  to  keep  and  dress  our  vines,  — 
Waiting  in  patience  for  the  flowers. 

And  when  the  angel  feared  of  all 
Across  my  hearth  its  shadow  spread  • 

The  rose  that  climbed  my  garden  wall 
Has  bloomed  the  other  side,  I  said. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


WORK. 

DOWN  and  up,  and  up  and  down, 

Over  and  over  and  over  ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown, 

Tuin  out  the  bright  red  clover. 
Work,  and  the  sun  your  work  will  share, 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall  ; 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 

And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 

With  hand  on  the  spade  and  heart  in  the  sky, 

Dress  the  ground,  and  till  it ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  brown  and  dry, 

Turn  out  the  golden  millet. 
Work,  and  your  house  shall  be  duly  fed  ; 

Work,  and  rest  shall  be  won  ; 
I  hold  that  a  man  had  better  be  dead 

Than  alive,  when  his  work  is  done  ! 

Down  and  up,  and  up  and  down, 
On  the  hill-top,  low  in  the  valley ; 

Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown, 
Turn  out  the  rose  and  lily. 


228  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Work  with  a  plan,  or  without  a  plan, 

And  your  ends  they  shall  be  shaped  true  ; 

Work,  and  learn  at  first  hand,  like  a  man,  — 
The  best  way  to  know,  is  to  do! 

Down  and  up  till  life  shall  close, 

Ceasing  not  your  praises  ; 
Turn  in  the  wild  white  winter  snows, 

Turn  out  the  sweet  spring  daisies. 
Work,  and  the  sun  your  work  will  share. 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall ; 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 

And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 


THOUGHTS  AND  THEORIES.  229 


COMFORT. 

BOATMAN,  boatman  !  my  brain  is  wild, 

As  wild  as  the  stormy  seas ; 
My  poor  little  child,  my  sweet  little  child, 

Is  a  corpse  upon  my  knees. 

No  holy  choir  to  sing  so  low, 

No  priest  to  kneel  in  prayer, 
No  tire-woman  to  help  me  sew 

A  cap  for  his  golden  hair. 

Dropping  his  oars  in  the  rainy  sea, 

The  pious  boatman  cried, 
Not  without  Him  who  is  life  to  thee 

Could  the  little  child  have  died  ! 

His  grace  the  same,  and  the  same  His  power, 

Demanding  our  love  and  trust, 
Whether  He  makes  of  the  dust  a  flower, 

Or  changes  a  flower  to  dust. 


- 


On  the  land  and  the  water,  all  in  all, 
The  strength  to  be  still  or  pray, 

To  blight  the  leaves  in  their  time  to  fall, 
Or  light  up  the  hills  with  May. 


230  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


FAITH  AND   WORKS. 

NOT  what  we  think,  but  what  we  do, 
Makes  saints  of  us  :  all  stiff  and  cold, 

The  outlines  of  the  corpse  show  through 
The  cloth  of  gold. 

And  in  despite  the  outward  sin,  — 
Despite  belief  with  creeds  at  strife,  — 

The  principle  of  love  within 
Leavens  the  life. 

For,  't  is  for  fancied  good,  I  claim, 

That  men  do  wrong,  —  not  wrong's  desire  ; 

Wrapping  themselves,  as  't  were,  in  flame 
To  cheat  the  fire. 

Not  what  God  gives,  but  what  He  takes, 

Uplifts  us  to  the.  holiest  height; 
On  truth's  rough  crags  life's  current  breaks 

To  diamond  light. 

From  transient  evil  I  do  trust 

That  we  a  final  good  shall  draw ; 

That  in  confusion,  death,  and  dust, 
Are  lio;ht  and  law. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

That  He  whose  glory  shines  among 
The  eternal  stars,  descends  to  mark 

This  foolish  little  atom  swung 
Loose  in  the  dark. 

But  though  I  should  not  thus  receive 
A  sense  of  order  and  control, 

My  God,  I  could  not  dishelieve 
My  sense  of  soul. 

For  though,  alas  !  I  can  but  see 

A  hand's  breadth  backward,  or  before, 

I  am,  and  since  I  am,  must  be 
Forevermore. 


232  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


THE   RUSTIC  PAINTER. 

His  sheep  went  idly  over  the  hills,  — 

Idly  down  and  up,  — 
As  he  sat  and  painted  his  sweetheart's  face 

On  a  little  ivory  cup. 

All  round  him  roses  lay  in  the  grass 
That  were  hardly  out  of  buds  ; 

For  sake  of  her  mouth  and  cheek,  I  knew 
He  had  murdered  them  in  the  woods. 

The  ant,  that  good  little  housekeeper, 

Was  not  at  work  so  hard ; 
And  yet  the  semblance  of  a  smile 

Was  all  of  his  reward  : 

And  the  golden-belted  gentleman 

That  travels  in  the  air, 
Hummed  not  so  sweet  to  the  clover-buds 

As  he  to  his  picture  there. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

The  while  for  his  ivory  cup  he  made 

An  easel  of  his  knee, 
And  painted  his  little  sweetheart's  face 

Truly  and  tenderly. 

Thus  we  are  marking  on  all  our  work 
Whatever  we  have  of  grace  ; 

As  the  rustic  painted  his  ivory  cup 
With  his  little  sweetheart's  face. 


233 


234  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


ONE   OF  MANY. 

T  KNEW  a  man  —  I  know  him  still 
In  part,  in  all  I  ever  knew,  — 

Whose  life  runs  counter  to  his  will, 
Leaving  the  things  he  fain  would  do, 

Undone.     His  hopes  are  shapes  of  sands, 
That  cannot  with  themselves  agree  ; 

As  one  whose  eager,  outstretched  hands 
Take  hold  on  water  —  so  is  he. 

Fame  is  a  bauble,  to  his  ken  ; 

Mirth  cannot  move  his  aspect  grim  ; 
The  holidays  of  other  men 

Are  only  battle-days  to  him. 

He  locks  his  heart  within  his  breast, 
Believing  life  to  such  as  he 

O 

Is  but  a  change  of  ills,  at  best,  — 
A  crossed  and  crazy  tragedy. 

His  cheek  is  wan  ;  his  limbs  are  faint 
With  fetters  which  they  never  wore  ; 

No  wheel  that  ever  crushed  a  saint, 
But  breaks  his  body  o'er  and  o'er. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  235 

Though  woman's  grace  he  never  sought 
By  tender  look,  or  word  of  praise, 

He  dwells  upon  her  in  his  thought, 
With  all  a  lover's  lingering  phrase. 

A  very  martyr  to  the  truth, 

All  that  \best  in  him  is  belied; 
Humble,  yet  proud  withal ;  in  sooth 

His  pride  is  his  disdain  of  pride. 

He  sees  in  what  he  does  amiss 

A  continuity  of  ill ; 
The  next  life  dropping  out  of  this, 

Stained  with  its  many  colors  still. 

His  kindliest  pity  is  for  those 

Who  are  the  slaves  of  guilty  msts  ; 

And  virtue,  shining  till  it  shows 
Another's  frailty,  he  distrusts. 

Nature,  he  holds,  since  time  began 
Has  been  reviled,  —  misunderstood  ; 

And  that  we  first  must  love  a  man 
To  judge  him,  —  be  he  bad  or  good. 

Often  his  path  is  crook'd  and  low, 

And  is  so  in  his  own  despite  ; 
For  still  the  path  he  meant  to  go 

Runs  straight,  and  level  with  the  right. 


286  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

No  heart  has  he  to  strive  with  fate 

For  less  things  than  our  great  men  gone 

Achieved,  who,  with  their  single  weight, 
Turned  time's  slow  wheels  a  century  on. 

His  waiting  silence  is  his  prayer  ; 

His  darkness  is  his  plea  for  light  ; 
And  loving  all  men  everywhere, 

He  lives,  a  more  than  anchorite. 

O  friends,  if  you  this  man  should  see, 
Be  not  your  scorn  too  hardly  hurled  ; 

Believe  me,  whatsoe'er  he  be, 

There  be  more  like  him  in  the  world. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  237 


THE   SHADOW. 

ONE  summer  night, 

The  full  moon,  'tired  in  her  golden  cloak, 
Did  beckon  me,  I  thought ;    and  I  awoke, 

And  saw  a  light, 

Most  soft  and  fair, 

Shine  in  the  brook,  as  if,  in  love's  distress, 
The  parting  sun  had  shear'd  a  dazzling  tress, 

And  left  it  there. 

Toward  the  sweet  banks 

Of  the  bright  stream  straightly  I  bent  my  way  ; 
And  in  my  heart  good  thoughts  the  while  did  stay, 

Giving  God  thanks. 

The  wheat-stocks  stood 
Along  the  field  like  little  fairy  men, 
And  mists  stole,  white  and  bashful,  through  the  glen, 

As  maidens  would. 

In  rich  content 

My  soul  was  growing  toward  immortal  height, 
When,  lo !     I  saw  that  by  me,  through  the  light, 

A  shadow  went. 


2S8  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

I  stopped,  afraid  : 

It  was  the  bad  sign  of  some  evil  done  ; 
That  stopping,  too,  right  swiftly  did  I  run  ; 

So  did  the  shade. 

At  length  I  drew 

Close  to  the  bank  of  the  delightful  brook, 
And  sitting  in  the  moonshine,  turn'd  to  look  ; 

It  sat  there  too. 

Ere  long  I  spied 

A  weed  with  goodly  flowers  upon  its  top  ; 
And  when  I  saw  that  such  sweet  things  did  drop 

Black  shadows,  cried,  — 

Lo !  I  have  found, 

Hid  in  this  ugly  riddle,  a  good  sign  ; 
My  life  is  twofold,  earthly  and  divine,  — 

Buried  and  crown'd. 

Sown  darkly  ;  raised 

Light  within  light,  when  death  from  mortal  soil 
Undresses  me,  and  makes  me  spiritual  :  — 

Deai1  Lord,  be  praised. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  239 


THE   UNWISE   CHOICE. 

Two  young  men,  when  I  was  poor, 
Came  and  stood  at  my  open  door ; 

One  said  to  me,  "  I  have  gold  to  give  ;  " 
And  one,  "  I  will  love  you  while  I  live  ! " 

My  sight  was  dazzled ;  woe  's  the  day  ! 
And  I  sent  the  poor  young  man  away  ; 

Sent  him  away,  I  know  not  where, 
And  my  heart  went  with  him,  unaware. 

He  did  not  give  me  any  sighs, 
But  he  left  his  picture  in  my  eyes  ; 

And  in  my  eyes  it  has  always  been : 
I  have  no  heart  to  keep  it  in  ! 

Beside  the  lane  with  hedges  sweet, 
Where  we  parted,  never  more  to  meet, 

He  pulled  a  flower  of  love's  own  hue, 
And  where  it  had  been  came  out  two ! 


240  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


And  in  th'  grass  where  he  stood,  for  years, 
The  dews  of  th'  morning  looked  like  tears. 


Still  smiles  the  house  where  I  was  born 
Among  its  fields  of  wheat  and  corn. 

Wheat  and  corn  that  strangers  bind,  — 

I  reap  as  I  sowed,  and  I  sowed  to  th'  wind 

As  one  who  feels  the  truth  break  through 
His  dream,  and  knows  his  dream  untrue, 

I  live  where  splendors  shine,  and  sigh, 
For  the  peace  that  splendor  cannot  buy  ; 

Sigh  for  the  day  I  was  rich  tho*  poor, 
And  saw  th'  two  young  men  at  my  door! 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


SIGNS    OF    GRACE. 

COME  tliou,  my  heavy  soul,  and  lav 

Thy  sorrows  all  aside, 
And  let  us  see,  if  so  we  may, 

How  God  is  glorified. 

Forget  the  storms  that  darkly  'beat 
Forget  the  woe  and  crime, 

And  tie   of  consolations  sweet 
A  posie  for  the  time. 

Some  blessed  token  everywhere 

Doth  grace  to  men  allow  ; 
The  daisy  sets  her  silver  share 

Beside  the  rustic's  plough. 

I  O 

The  wintry  wind  that  naked  strips 

The  bushes,  stoopeth  low, 
And  round  their  rugged  arms  enwraps 

The  fleeces  of  the  snow. 

The  blackbird,  idly  whistling  till 

The  storm  begins  to  pour, 
Finds  ever  with  his  golden  bill 

A  hospitable  door. 
31 


242  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

From  love,  and  love's  protecting  power, 

We  cannot  go  apart ; 
The  shadows  round  the  fainting  flower 

Rebuke  the  drooping  heart. 

Our  strivings  are  not  reckoned  less, 
Although  we  fail  to  win  ; 

The  lily  wears  a  royal  dress, 
And  yet  she  doth  not  spin. 

Sc,  Soul,  forget  thy  evil  days, 

Thy  sorrow  lay  aside, 
And  strive  to  see  in  all  His  ways 

How  God  is  glorified. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


PROVIDENCE. 

"  From  seeming  evil,  still  educing  good." 

THE  stone  upon  the  wayside  seed  that  fell, 
And  kept  the  spring  rain  from  it,  kept  it  too 

From  the  bird's  mouth  ;  and  in  that  silent  cell 
It  quickened,  after  many  days,  and  grew, 

Till,  by-and-by,  a  rose,  a  single  one, 

Lifted  its  little  face  into  the  sun. 

It  chanced  a  wicked  man  approached  one  day, 
And  saw  the  tender,  piteous  look  it  wore  : 

Perhaps  one  like  it  somewhere  far  away 
Grew  in  a  garden-bed,  or  by  the  door 

That  he  in  childish  days  had  played  around, 

For  his  knees,  trembling,  sunk  upon  the  ground. 

Then,  o'er  this  piece  of  bleeding  earth,  the  tears 
Of  penitence  were  wrung,  until  at  last 

The  golden  key  of  love,  that  sin  for  years 
In  his  unquiet  soul  had  rusted  fast, 

Was  loosened,  and  his  heart,  that  very  hour, 

Opened  to  God's  good  sunshine,  like  a  flower. 


244  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


THE   LIVING   PRESENT. 

FRIENDS,  let  us  slight  no  pleasant  spring 
Tluit  bubbles  up  in  life's  dry  sands, 

And  yet  be  careful  what  good  thing 
We  touch  with  sacrilegious  hands. 

Our  blessings  should  be  sought,  not  claimed, 
Cherished,  not  watched  with  jealous  eye  ; 

Love  is  too  precious  to  be   named, 

Save  with  a  reverence  deep  and  high. 

In  all  that  lives,  exists  the  power 
To  avenge  the  invasion  of  its  right ; 

We  cannot  bruise  and  break  our  flower, 
And  have  our  flower,  alive  and  bright. 

Let  us  think  less  of  what  appears,  — 
More  of  what  is ;  for  this,  hold  I, 

It  is  the  sentence  no  man  hears 

That  makes  us  live,  or  makes  us  die. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  245 

Trust  hearsay  less  ;  seek  more  to  prove 
And  know  if  things  be  what  they  seem ; 

Not  sink  supinely  in  some  groove. 

And  hope  and  hope,  and  dream  and  dream. 

Some  days  must  needs  be  full  of  gloom, 
Yet  must  we  use  them  as  we  may ; 

Talk  less  about  the  years  to  come,  — 
Live,  love,  and  labor  more,  to-day. 

What  our  hand  findeth,  do  with  might; 

Ask  less  for  help,  but  stand  or  fall, 
Each  one  of  us,  in  life's  great  fight, 

As  if  himself  and  God  were  all. 


246  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


ONE    DUST. 

THOU,  under  Satan's  fierce  control, 
Shall  Heaven  its  final  rest  bestow? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  soul 

That  might  have  fallen  as  darkly  low. 

I  judge  thee  not,  what  depths  of  ill 
Soe'er  thy  feet  have  found,  or  trod ; 

I  know  a  spirit  and  a  will 

As  weak,  but  for  the  grace  of  God. 

Shalt  thou  with  full-day  laborers  stand, 
Who  hardly  canst  have  pruned  one  vine  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  hand 
With  an  infirmity  like  thine. 

Shalt  thou  who  hast  with  scoffers  part, 

E'er  wear  the  crown  the  Christian  wears? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  heart 
As  flinty,  but  for  tears  and  prayers. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

Have  mercy,  O   Thou  Crucified! 

For  even  while  I  name  Thy  name, 
I  know  a  tongue  that  might  have  lied 

Like  Peter's,  and  am  bowed  with  shame. 

Fighters  of  good  fights, — just,  unjust, — 
The  weak  who  faint,  the  frail  who  fall,  — 

Of  one  blood,  of  the  self-same  dust, 

Thou,  God  of  love,  hast  made  them  all. 


247 


THE    WEAVER'S    DREAM. 

HE  sat  all  alone  in  his  dark  little  room, 
His  fingers  aweary  with  work  at  the  loom, 
His  eyes  seeing  not  the  fine  threads,  for  the  tears, 
As  he  carefully  counted  the  months  and  the  years 
He  had  been  a  poor  weaver. 

Not  a  traveller  went  on  the  dusty  highway, 
But  he  thought,  "He  has  nothing  to  do  but  be  gay;" 
No  matter  how  burdened  or  bent  he  might  be, 
The  weaver  believed  him  more  happy  than  he, 
And  sighed  at  his  weaving. 

He  saw  not  the  roses  so  sweet  and  so  red 

That  looked  through  his  window  ;  lie  thought  to  be  dead 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  249 

And  carried  away  from  his  dark  little  room, 
Wrapt  up  in  the  linen  he   had  in  his  loom, 
Were  better  than   weaving. 

Just  then  a  white  angel  came  out  of  the  skies, 
And  shut  up  his  senses,  and  sealed  up  his  eyes, 
And  bore  him  away  from  the  work  at  his  loom 
In  a  vision,  and  left  him  alone  by  the  tomb 
Of  his  dear  little  daughter. 

"My  darling!"  he  cries,  "what  a  blessing  was  mine! 
How  I  sinned,  having  you,  against  goodness  divine  I 
Awake  !  O  my  lost  one,  my  sweet  one,  awake  I 
And  I  never,  as  long  as  I  live,  for  your  sake, 
Will  sigh  at  my  weaving  !  " 

The  sunset  was  gilding  his  low  little  room 
When  the  weaver  awoke  from  his  dream  at  the  loom, 
And  close  at  his  knee  saw  a  dear  little  head 
Alight  with  long  curls,  —  she  was  living,  not  dead,  — 
His  pride  and  his  treasure. 

He  winds  the  fine  thread  on  his  shuttle  anew, 
(At  thought  of  his  blessing  't  was  easy  to  do,) 
And  sings  as  he  weaves,  for  the  joy  in  his  breast, 
Peace  cometh  of  striving,  and  labor  is  rest : 
Grown  wise  was  the  weaver. 

32 


2uO  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


NOT   NOW. 

THE  patli  of  duty  I  clearly  trace, 
I  stand  with  conscience  face  to  face, 

And  all  her  pleas  allow  ; 
Calling  and  crying  the  while  for  grace,  — 
"  Some  other  time,  and  some  other  place : 

O,  not  to-day ;  not  now  !  " 

I  know  't  is  a  demon  boding  ill, 

O  * 

I  know  I  have  power  to  do  if  1  will, 
And  I  put  my  hand  to  th'  plough  ; 

I  have  fair,  sweet  seeds  in  my  barn,  and  lo  ! 

When  all  the  furrows  are  ready  to  sow, 
The  voice  says,  "  O,  not  now  !  " 

My  peace  I  sell  at  the  price  of  woe  ; 
In  heart  and  in  spirit  I  suffer  so, 

The  anguish  wrings  my  brow  ; 
But  still  I  linger  and  cry  for  grace, — 
"  Some  other  time,  and  some  other  place : 

O,  not  to-day  ;  not  now  !  " 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  251 

I  talk  to  my  stubborn  heart  and  say, 
The  work  I  must  do  I  will  do  to-day ; 

I  will  make  to  the  Lord  a  vow  : 
And  I  will  not  rest  and  I  will  not  sleep 
Till  the  vow  I  have  vowed  I  rise  and  keep  ; 

And  the  demon  cries,  "  Not  now  1  " 

And  so  the  days  and  the  years  go  by, 
And  so  I  register  lie  upon  lie, 

And  break  with  Heaven  my  vow  ; 
For  when  I  would  boldly  take  my  stand, 
This  terrible  demon  stays  my  hand,  — 

"  O,  not  to-day  :  not  now  !  " 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


CRAGS. 

THERE  was  a  good  and  reverend  man 
Whose  day  of  life,  serene  and  bright, 

Was  wearing  hard  upon  the  gloom 
Beyond  which  we  can  see  no  light. 

And  as  his  vision  back  to  morn, 
And  forward  to  the  evening  sped, 

He  bowed  himself  upon  his  staff, 

And  with  his  heart  communing,  said  : 

From  mystery  on  to  mystery 

My  way  has  been  ;  yet  as  I  near 

The  eternal  shore,  against  the  sky 

These  crags  of  truth  stand  sharp  and  clear. 

Where'er  its  hidden  fountain  be, 

Time  is  a  many-colored  jet 
Of  good  and  evil,  light  and  shade, 

And  we  evoke  the  things  we  get. 

The  hues  that  our  to-morrows  wear 

Are  by  our  yesterdays  forecast ; 
Our  future  takes  into  itself 

The  true  impression  of  our  past. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  253 

The  attrition  of  conflicting  thoughts 

To  clear  conclusions,  wears  the  groove  ; 

The  love  that  seems  to  die,  dies  not, 
But  is  absorbed  in  larger  love. 

We  cannot  cramp  ourselves,  unharmed, 

In  bonds  of  iron,  nor  of  creeds ; 
The  rights  that  rightfully  belong 

To  man,  are  measured  by  his  needs. 

The  daisy  is  entitled  to 

The  nurture  of  the  dew  and  light ; 
The  green  house  of  the  grasshopper 

Is  his  by  Nature's  sacred  light. 


254  THOUGHTS  AXD   THEORIES. 


MAN. 

IN  what  a  kingly  fashion  man  doth  dwell : 

He  hath  but  to  prefer 

His  want,  and  Nature,  like  a  servitor, 
Maketh  him  answer  with  some  miracle. 

And  yet  his  thoughts*  do  keep  along  the  ground, 

And  neither  leap  nor  run, 

Though  capable  to  climb  above  the  sun  ; 
He  seemeth  free,  and  yet  is  strangely  bound. 

What  name  would  suit  his  case,  or  great  or  small  ? 

Poor,  but  exceeding  proud ; 

Importunate  and  still,  humble  and  loud ; 
Most  wise,  and  yet  most  ignorant,  withal. 

The  world  that  lieth  in  the  golden  air, 

Like  a  great  emerald, 

Knoweth  the  law  by  which  she  is  upheld, 
And  in  her  motions  keepeth  steady  there. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  255 

But  in  his  foolishness  proud  man  defies 

The  law,  wherewith  is  bound 

The  peace  he  seeks,  and  fluttering  moth-like  round 
Some  dangerous  light,  experimenting,  dies. 

And  all  his  subtle  reasoning;  can  obtain 

O 

To  tell  his  fortune  by, 
Is  only  that  he  liveth  and  must  die, 
And  dieth  in  the  hope  to  live  again. 


256  THOUGHTS  A  AD   THEORIES. 


TO   SOLITUDE. 

I  AM   weary  of  the  working, 
Weary  of  the  long  day's  heat ; 

To  thy  comfortable  bosom, 

Wilt  thoa  take  me,  spirit  sweet  ? 

Weary  of  the  long,  blind  struggle 
For  a  pathway  bright  and  high,  — 

Weary  of  the  dimly  dying 

Hopes  that  never  quite  all  die. 

Weary  searching  a  bad  cipher 
For  a  good  that  must  he  meant ; 

Discontent  with  being  weary,  — 
Weary  with  my  discontent. 

I  am  weary  of  the  trusting 

Where  my  trusts  but  torments  prove  ; 
Wilt  thou  keep  faith  with  me  ?  wilt  thou 

Be  my  true  and  tender  love  ? 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

I  am  weary  drifting,  driving 
Like  a  helmless  bark  at  sea ; 

Kindly,  comfortable  spirit, 

Wilt  thou  give  thyself  to  me  ? 

Give  thy  birds  to  sing  me  sonnets  ? 

Grive  thy  winds  my  cheeks  to  kiss  ? 
And  thy  mossy  rocks  to  stand  for 

The  memorials  of  our  bliss  ? 

I  in  reverence  will  hold  thee, 
Never  vexed  with  jealous  ills, 

Though  thy  wild  and  wimpling  waters 
Wind  about  a  thousand  hills. 


257 


258  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES, 


THE  LAW  OF   LIBERTY. 

THIS  extent  hath  freedom's  ground,  - 
In  my  freedom  I  am  bound 
Never  any  soul  to  wound. 

Not  my  own :  it  is  not  mine, 

Lord,  except  to  make  it  thine, 

By  good  works  through  grace  divine. 

Not  another's :  Thou  alone 
Keepest  judgment  for  thine  own  ; 
Only  unto  Thee  is  known 

What  to  pity,  what  to  blame  ; 
How  the  fierce  temptation  came: 
What  is  honor,  what  is  shame. 

Rio;ht  is  bound  in  this  —  to  win 

O 

Good  till  injury  begin ; 
That,  and  only  that,  is  sin. 

Selfish  good  may  not  befall 
Any  man,  or  great  or  small ; 
Best  for  one  is  best  for  all. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES.  259 

And  who  vainly  doth  desire 
Good  through  evil  to  acquire, 
In  his  bosom  taketh  fire. 

Wronging  no  man,  Lord,  nor  Thee 
Vexing,  I  do  pray  to  be 
In  my  soul,  my  body,  free. 

Free  to  freely  leave  behind 
When  the  better  things  I  find, 
Worser  things,  howe'er  enshrined. 

So  that  pain  may  peace  enhance, 

And  through  every  change  and  chance, 

I  upon  myself,  advance. 


iJ60  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 


MY    CREED. 

I  HOLD  that  Christian  grace  abounds 
Where  charity  is  seen  ;  that  when 

We  climb  to  Heaven,  't  is  on  the  rounds 
Of  love  to  men. 

I  hold  all  else,  named  piety, 

A  selfish  scheme,  a  vain  pretence  ; 

Where  centre  is  not  —  can  there  be 
Circumference  ? 

This  I  moreover  hold,  and  dare 

Affirm  where'er  my  rhyme  may  go,  — 

Whatever  things  be  sweet  or  fair, 
Love  makes  them  so. 

Whether  it  be  the  lullabies 

That  charm  to  rest  the  nursling  bird, 
Or  that  sweet  confidence  of  sighs 

And  blushes,  made  without  a  word. 

Whether  the  dazzling  and  the  flush 
Of  softly  sumptuous  garden  bowers, 

Or  by  some  cabin  door,  a  bush 
Of  ragged  flowers. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 

'T  is  not  the  wide  phylactery, 

Nor  stubborn  fast,  nor  stated  prayers, 

That  make  us  saints :  we  judge  the  tree 
By  what  it  bears. 

And  when  a  man  can  live  apart 
From  works,  on  theologic  trust, 

I  know  the  blood  about  his  heart 
Is  dry  as  dust. 


261 


262  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


OPEN  SECRETS. 

THE  truth  lies  round  about  us,  all 
Too  closely  to  be  sought,  — 

So  open  to  our  vision  that 
'T  is  hidden  to  our  thought. 

We  know  not  what  the  glories 
Of  the  grass,  the  flower,  may  be  ; 

We  needs  must  struggle  for  the  sight 
Of  what  we  always  see. 

Waiting  for  storms  and  whirlwinds, 

O 

And  to  have  a  sign  appear, 
We  deem  not  God  is  speaking  in 
The  still  small  voice  we  hear. 

In  reasoning  proud,  blind  leaders  of 
The  blind,  through  life  we  go, 

And  do  not  know  the  things  we  see, 
Nor  see  the  things  \ve  know. 


THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Single  and  indivisible, 

We  pass  from  change  to  change, 
Familiar  with  the  strangest  things, 

And  with  familiar,  strange. 

We  make  the  light  through   which  we  see 
The  light,  and  make  the  dark; 

To  hear  the  lark  sing,  we  must  be 
At  heaven's  gate  with  the  lark. 


263 


264  THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES. 


THE   SADDEST   SIGHT. 

As  one  that  leacleth  a  blind  rosin 

In  a  city,  to  and  fro, 

Thought,  even  so, 
Leadeth  me  still  wherever  it  will 

Through  scenes  of  joy  and  woe. 

1  have  seen  Lear,  his  white  head  crowned 

With  poor  straws,  playing  King  ; 

And,  wearying 
Her  cheeks'  young  flowers  "  with  true-love  .shower* 

•/ 

I  have  heard  Ophelia  sing. 

I  have  been  in  battles,  and  I  have  seen 

Stones  at  the  martyrs  hurled,  — 

Seen  th'  flames  curled 
Round  foreheads  bold,  and  lips  whence  rolled 

The  litanies  of  the  world. 

But  of  all  sad  sights  that  ever  I  saw, 

The  saddest  under  the  sun, 

Is  a  little  one, 
Whose  poor  pale  face  was  despoiled  of  grace 

Ere  yet  its  life  begun. 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  265 

No  glimpse  of  the  good  green  Nature 

To  gladden  with  sweet  surprise 

The  staring  eyes, 
That  only  have  seen,  close  walls  between, 

A  hand-breadth  of  the  skies. 

Ah,  never  a  bird  is  heard  to  sing 

At  the  windows  under  ground, 

The  long  year  round  ; 
There,  never  the  morn  on  her  pipes  of  corn 

Maketh  a  cheerful  sound. 

Oh,  little  white  cloud  of  witnesses 

Against  your  parentage, 

May  Heaven  assuage 
The  woes  that  wait  on  your  dark  estate,  — 

Unorphaned  orphanage. 


266  THOUGHTS   AND   THEORIES. 


THE   BRIDAL   HOUR. 

"  THE  moon's  gray  tent  is  up :  another  hour, 
And  yet  another  one  will  bring  the  time 

To  which,  through  many  cares  and  checks,  so  slowly, 
The  golden  day  did  climb. 

"  Take  all  the  books  away,  and  let  no  noises 

Be  in  the  house  while  softly  I  undress 
My  soul  from  broideries  of  disguise,  and  wait  for 

My  own  true  love's  caress. 

"  The  sweetest  sound  would  tire  to-night ;  the  dewdrops 
Setting  the  green  ears  in  the  corn  and  wheat, 

Would  make  a  discord  in  the  heart  attuned  to 
The  bridegroom's  coming  feet. 

"  Love  !  blessed  Love  !  if  we  could  hang  our  walls  with 
The  splendors  of  a  thousand  rosy  Mays, 

Surely  they  would  not  shine  so  well  as  thou  dost, 
Lighting  our  dusty  days. 

"  Without  thee,  what  a  dim  and  woful  story 
Our  years  would  be,  oh,  excellence  sublime  ! 

Slip  of  the  life  eternal,  brightly  growing 
In  the  low  soil  of  time  !  " 


THOUGHTS  AND    THEORIES.  267 


IDLE. 

I  HEARD  the  gay  spring  coming, 
I  saw  the  clover  blooming, 

Red  and  white  along  the  meadows,  — 

Red  and  white  along  the  streams  ; 
I  heard. the  bluebird  singing, 
I  saw  the  green  grass  springing, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming,  — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

I  heard  the  ploughman's  whistle, 
I  saw  the  rough  burr  thistle 

In  the  sharp  teeth  of  the  harrow,  — 

Saw  the  summer's  yellow  gleams 
In  the  walnuts,  in  the  fennel, 
In  the  mulleins,  lined  with  flannel, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

I  felt  the  warm,  bright  weather  ; 

Saw  the  harvest,  —  saw  them  gather 
Corn  and  millet,  wheat  and  apples,  — 
Saw  the  gray  barns  with  their  seams 


288  THOUGHTS  AND   THEORIES. 

Pressing  wide,  —  the  bare-armed  shearers, 
The  ruddy  water-bearers,  — 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming,  — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

The  bluebird  and  her  nestling 
Flew  away  ;  the  leaves  fell  rustling, 

The  cold  rain  killed  the  roses, 

The  sun  withdrew  his  beams  ; 
No  creature  cared  about  me, 
The  world  could  do  without  me, 

Ail  as  I  lay  a-dreaming,  — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 


THE   SURE   WITNESS 

THE  solemn  wood  had  spread 

Shadows  around  my  head,  — 

"  Curtains  they  are,"  I  said, 
"  Hung  dim  and  still  about  the  house  of  prayer  ;  " 

Softly  among  the  limbs, 

Turning  the  leaves  of  hymns, 
I  heard  the  winds,  and  asked  if  God  were  there. 
No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening  stood, 
Sweet  peace  made  holy  hushes  through  the  wood. 

With  ruddy,  open  hand, 

I  saw  the  wild  rose  stand 
Beside  the  green  gate  of  the  summer  hills, 

And  pulling  at  her  dress, 

I  cried,  "  S \veet  hermitess, 
Hast  thou  beheld  Him  who  the  dew  distils  ?  " 
No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening  bent, 
Her  gracious  beauty  made  my  heart  content. 


272  HYMNS. 

The  moon  in  splendor  shone,  — 

"  She  walketh  Heaven  alone, 
And  seeth  all  things,"  to  myself  I  mused  ; 

"  Hast  thou  beheld  Him,  then, 

Who  hides  himself  from  men 

In  that  great  power  through  Nature  interfused  ?  " 
No  speech  made  answer,  and  no  sign  appeared, 
But  in  the  silence  I  was  soothed  and  cheered. 

Waking  one  time,  strange  awe 

Thrilling  my  soul,  I  saw 
A  kingly  splendor  round  about  the  night ; 

Such  cunning  work  the  hand 

Of  spinner  never  planned,  — 
The  finest  wool  may  not  be  washed  so  white. 
"  Hast  thou  come  out  of  Heaven  ?  "  I  asked  ;  and  lo ! 
The  snow  was  all  the  answer  of  the  snow. 

Then  my  heart  said,  "  Give  o'er  ; 

Question  no  more,  no  more  ! 
The  wind,  the  snow-storm,  the  wild  hermit  flower, 

The  illuminated  air, 

The  pleasure  after  prayer, 
Proclaim  the  unoriginated  Power  ! 
The  mystery  that  hides  Him  here  and  there, 
Bears  the  sure  witness  He  is  everywhere." 


HYMNS.  '278 


LOVE   IS   LIFE. 

OUR  days  are  few  and  full  of  strife  ; 

Like  leaves  our  pleasures  fade  and  fal1  ; 

But  Thou  who  art  the  all  in  all, 
Thy  name  is  Love,  and  love  is  Life  ! 

We  walk  in  sleep  and  think  we  see  ; 
Our  little  lives  are  clothed  with  dreams 
For  that  to  us  which  substance  seems 

Is  shadow,  'twixt  ourselves  and  Thee. 

We  are  immortal  now,  and  here, 

Chances  and  changes,  night  and  day. 
Are  landmarks  in  the  eternal  way  ; 

Our  fear  is  all  we  have  to  fear. 

Our  lives  are  dew-di'ops  in  Thy  sun ; 
Thou  breakest  them,  and  lo  !  we  see 
A  thousand  gracious  shapes  of  Thee, — 

A  thousand  shapes,  instead  of  one. 

The  soul  that  drifts  all  darkly  dim 

Through  floods  that  seem  outside  of  grace, 
Is  only  surging  toward  the  place 

Which  Thou  hast  made  and  meant  for  him. 
35 


274  HYMNS. 

For  this  we  hold,  —  ill  could  not  be 
Were  there  no  power  beyond  the  ill ; 
Our  wills  are  held  within  Thy  will ; 

The  ends  of  goodness  rest  with  Thee. 

Fall  siurms  of  winter  as  you  may, 

The  dry  boughs  in  the  warm  spring  rain 
Shall  put  their  green  leaves  forth  again, 

And  surely  we  are  more  than  they. 


THY  works,  O  Lord,  interpret  Thee, 

And  through  them  all  Thy  love  is  shosvn  ; 

Flowing  about  us  like  a  sea, 

Yet  steadfast  as  the  eternal  throne. 

Out  of  the  light  that  runneth  through       •» 
Thy  hand,  the  lily's  dress  is  spun ; 

Thine  is  the  brightness  of  the  dew, 
And  thine  the  glory  of  the  sun. 


HYMNS.  275 


TIME. 

WHAT  is  time,  O,  glorious  Giver, 
With  its  restlessness  and  might, 

But  a  lost  and  wandering  river 
Working  back  into  the  light? 


Every  gloomy  rock  that  troubles 
Its  smooth  passage,  strikes  to  life 

Beautiful  and  joyous  bubbles 

That  are  only  born  through  strife. 

Overhung  with  mist-like  shadows, 

O 

Stretch  its  shores  away,  away, 
To  the  long,  delightful  meadows 
Shining  with  immortal  May  : 

Where  its  moaning  reaches  never, 
Passion,  pain,  or  fear  to  move, 

And  the  changes  bring  us  ever 
Sabbaths  and  new  moons  of  love. 


276  HYMNS. 


CONSOLATION. 

0  FRIENDS,  we  are  drawing  nearer  home 

As  day  by  day  goes  by  ; 
Nearer  the  fields  of  fadeless  bloom, 

The  joys  that  never  die. 

Ye  doubting  souls,  from  doubt  be  free,  — 
Ye  mourners,  mourn  no  more, 

For  every  wave  of  Death's  dark  sea 
Breaks  on  that  blissful  shore. 

God's  ways  are  high  above  our  ways,  — 

So  shall   we  learn  at  length, 
And  tune  our  lives  to  sing  His  praise 

With  all  our  mind,  might,  strength. 

About  our  devious  paths  of  ill 

He  sets  His  stern  decrees, 
And  works  the  wonders  of  His  will 

Through  pains  and  promises. 

Strange  are  the  mysteries  He  employs, 

Yet  we  His  love  will  trust, 
Though  it  should  blight  our  dearest  joys, 

And  bruise  us  into  dust. 


HYMNS.  2?  7 


SUPPLICATION. 

0  THOU,  who  all  my  life  hast  crowned 
With  better  things  than  I  could  ask, 
Be  it  to-day  my  humble  task 

To  own  from  depths  of  grief  profound, 
The  many  sins,   which  darken  through 
What  little  good  I  do. 

1  have  been  too  much  used,  I  own, 
To  tell .  my  needs  in  fretful  words ; 
The  clamoring  of  the  silly  birds, 

Impatient  till  their  wings  be  grown, 

Have  Thy  forgiveness.     O,  my  blessed  Lord, 
The  like  to  me  accord. 

Of  grace,  as  much  as  will  complete 

Thy  will  in  me,  I  pray  Thee  for ; 

Even  as  a  rose  shut  in  a  drawer 
That  maketh  all  about  it  sweet, 

I  would  be,  rather  than  the  cedar  fine  : 

Help  me,  thou  Power  divine. 

With  charity  fill  Thou  my  heart, 

As  Summer  fills  the  grass  with  dews, 


27  S  HYMNS. 

And  as  th'  year  itself  renews 
In  th'  sun,  when  Winter  clays  depart, 
Blessed  forever,  grant  Thou  me 
To  be  renewed  in  Thee. 


WHY  should  our  spirits  be  opprest 
When  days  of  darkness  fall  ? 

Our  Father  knoweth  what  is  best, 
And  He  hath  made  them  all. 

He  made  them,  and  to  all  their  length 

Set  parallels  of  gain  ; 
We  gather  from  our  pain  the  strength 

To  rise  above  our  pain. 

All,  all  beneath  the  shining  sun 

Is  vanity  and  dust ; 
Help  us,  O  high  and  holy  One, 

To  fix  in  Thee  our  trust ; 

And  in  the  change,  and  interfuse 
Of  change,  with  every  hour, 

To  recognize  the  shifting  hues 
Of  never-channintr  Power. 


HYMNS.  279 


WHITHER. 

ALL  the  time  my  soul  is  calling, 
"  Whither,  whither  do  I  go  ?  " 

For  my  days  like  leaves  are  falling 
From  my  tree  of  life  below. 

Who  will  come  and  be  my  lover  ! 
Who  is  strong  enough  to  save, 

O  O  ' 

When  that  I  am  leaning  over 
The  dark  silence  of  the  grave  ? 

Wherefore  should  my  soul  be  calling. 

"  Whither,  whither  do  I  go  ?  " 
For  my  days  like  leaves  are  falling 

In  the  hand  of  God,  I  know. 

As  the  seasons  touch  their  ending, 
As  the  dim  years  fade  and  flee, 

Let  me  rather  still  be  sending 
Some  good  deed  to  plead  for  me. 

Then,  though  none  should  stay  to  weep  me, 

Lover-like,  within  the  shade, 
He  will  hold  me,  He  will  keep  me, 

And  I  will  not  be  afraid. 


280  HYMNS. 


SURE   ANCHOR. 

Our  of  the  heavens  come  down  to  me, 
O  Lord,  and  hear  my  earnest  prayer 

On  life  above  the  life  I  see 

Fix  Thou  my  soul,  and  keep  it  there. 

The  richest  joys  of  earth  are  poor  ; 

The  fairest  forms  are  all  unfair ; 
On  what  is  peaceable  and  pure 

Set  Thou  my  heart,  and  keep  it  there. 

Pride  builds  her  house  upon  the  sand  ; 

Ambition  treads  the  spider's  stair  ; 
On  whatsoever  things  will  stand 

Set  Thou  my  feet,  and  keep  them  there. 

The  past  is  vanished  in  the  past ; 

The  future  doth  a  shadow  wear  ; 
On  whatsoever  thinjrs  are  fast 

O 

Fix  Thou  mine  eyes,  and  keep  them  there. 


HYMNS. 

In  spite  of  slander's  tongue,  in  spite 
Of  burdens  grievous  hard  to  bear, 

To  whatsoever  things  are  right 

Set  Thou  my  hand,  and  keep  it  there. 

Life  is  a  little  troubled  breath, 
Love  but  another  name  for  care  ; 

Lord,  anchor  Thou  my  hope  and  faith 
In  things  eternal,  —  only  there. 


281 


36 


282  HYMNS. 


REMEMBER. 

IN  thy  time,  and  times  of  mourning, 
When  grief  doeth  all  she  can 

To  hide  the  prosperous  sunshine, 
Remember  this,  O  man,  — 

"  He  setteth  an  end  to  darkness." 

Sad  saint,  of  the  world  forgotten, 
Who  \vorkest  thy  work  apart, 

Take  thou  this  promise  for  comfort, 
And  hold  it  in  thy  heart,  — 

*'  He  searcheth  out  all  perfection  " 

O  foolish  and  faithless  sailor, 
When  the  ship  is  driven  away, 

When  the  waves  forget  their  places, 
And  the  anchor  will  not  stay,  — 

u  He  weigheth  the  waters  by  measure." 

O  outcast,  homeless,  bewildered, 
Let  now  thy  murmurs  be  still, 

Go  in  at  the  gates  of  gladness 
And  eat  of  the  feast  at  will,  — 

**  For  wisdom  is  better  than  riches." 


HYMNS.  28o 

O  diligent,  diligent  sower, 

Who  sowest  thy  seed  in  vain, 
When  the  corn  in  the  ear  is  withered, 

And  the  young  flax  dies  for  rain,  — 
"  Through  rocks  He  cutteth  out  rivers  " 


LYRIC. 

I'HOU  givest,  Lord,  to  Nature  law, 

And  she  in  turn  doth  give 
Her  poorest  flower  a  right  to  draw 

Wlmte'er  she  needs  to  live. 

The  dews  upon  her  forehead  fall, 

The  sunbeams  round  her  lean, 
And  dress  her  humble  form  with  all 

The  glory  of  a  queen. 

In  thickets  wild,  in  woodland  bowers, 

By  waysides,  everywhere, 
The  plainest  flower  of  all  the  flowers 

Is  shining  with  Thy  care. 

And  shall  I  through  my  fear  and  doubt 

Be  less  than  one  of  these, 
And  come  from  seeking  Thee   without 

Thy  blessed,  influences? 

Thou  who  hast  crowned  my  life  with  powers 

So  large,  —  so  high   above 
The  fairest  flower  of  all  the  flowers, 

Forbid  it  by  Thy  love. 


HYMNS.  285 


SUNDAY  MORNING. 

O  DAY  to  sweet  religious  thought 

So  wisely  set  apart, 
Back  to  the  silent  strength  of  life 

Help  thou  my  wavering  heart. 

Nor  let  the  obtrusive  lies  of  sense 

My  meditations  draw 
From  the  composed,  majestic  realm 

Of  everlasting  law. 

Break  down  whatever  hindering  shapes 

1  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
And  make  my  soul  acquainted  with. 

Celestial  company. 

Beyond  the  wintry  waste  of  death 
Shine  fields  of  heavenly  light ; 

Let  not  this  incident  of  time 
Absorb  me  from  their 


286  HYMNS. 

I  know  these  outward  forms  wherein 
So  much  my  hopes  I  stay, 

Are  but  the  shadowy  hints  of  that 
Which  cannot  pass  away. 

That  just  outside  the  work-day  path 
By  man's  volition  trod, 

Lie  the  resistless  issues  of 
The  things  ordained  of  God. 


HYMNS.  287 


IN  THE   DARK. 

OUT  of  the  earthly  years  we  live 
How  small  a  profit  springs  ; 

I  cannot  think  but  life  should  give 
Higher  and  better  things. 

The  very  ground  whereon  we  tread 
Is  clothed  to  please  our  sight ; 

I  cannot  think  that  we  have  read 
Our  dusty  lesson  right. 

So  little  comfort  we  receive, 
Except  through  what  we  see, 

I  cannot  think  we  half  believe 
Our  immortality. 

We  disallow  and  trample  so 
The  rights  of  poor,  weak  men, 

I  cannot  think  we  feel  and  know 
They  are  our  brethren. 

So  rarely  our  affections  move 

Without  a  selfish  guard, 
I  cannot  think  we  know  that  love 

Is  all  of  love's  reward. 


288  HYMXS. 

To  him  who  smites,  the  cheek  is  turned 
With  such  a  slow  consent, 

I  cannot  think  that  we  have  learned 
The  holy  Testament. 

Blind,  ignorant,   we  grope  along 

A  path  misunderstood, 
Mingling  with  folly  and  with  wrong 

Some  providential  good. 

Striving  with  vain  and  idle  strife 

In  outwaixl  shows  to  live, 
We  famish,  knowing  not  that  life 

Has  better  things  to  give. 


HYMNS.  289 


PARTING   SONG. 

THE  long  day  is  closing, 
Ah,  why  should  you  weep  ? 

'T  is  thus  that  God  gives 
His  beloved  ones  sleep. 

I  see  the  wide  water 

So  deep  and  so  black,  — 

Love  waits  me  beyond  it,  — 
I  would  not  go  back ! 

I  would  not  go  back 

Where  its  joys  scarce  may  gleam, 
Where  even  in  dreamino- 

o 

We  know  that  we  dream; 

For  though  life  filled  for  me 

All  measures  of  bliss, 
Has  it  anything  better 

Or  sweeter  than  this  ? 

I  would  not  go  back 

To  the  torment  of  fear,  — 

To  the  wastes  of  uncomfort 
When  home  is  so  near. 
37 


290  HYMNS. 

Each  night  is  a  prison-bar 
Broken  and  gone,  — 

Each  morning  a  golden  gate, 
On,  —  farther  on  I 

On,  on  toward  the  city 
So  shining  and  fair  ; 

And  He  that  hath  loved  me 
Died  for  me  —  is  there . 


rrfv, 


HYMNS.  291 


MOURN  NOT. 

O  MOURNER,  mourn  not  vanished  light, 
But  fix  your  fearful  hopes  above  ; 

The  watcher,  through  the  long,  dark  night, 
Shall  see  the  daybreak  of  God's  love. 

A  land  all  green  and  bright  and  fair, 
Lies  just  beyond  this  vale  of  tears, 

And  we  shall  meet,  immortal  there, 
The  pleasures  of  our  mortal  years. 

He  who  to  death  has  doomed  our  race, 
With  steadfast  faith  our  souls  has  armed, 

And  made  us  children  of  His  grace 
To  go  into  the  grave,  unharmed. 

The  storm  may  beat,  the  night  may  close, 
The  face  may  change,  the  blood  run  chill, 

But  His  great  love  no  limit  knows, 
And  therefore  we  should  fear  no  ill. 


292  HYMNS. 

Dust  as  we  are,  and  steeped  in  guilt, 

How  strange,  how  wondrous,  how  divine, 

That  He  hath  for  us  mansions  built, 
Where  everlasting  splendors  shine. 

Our  days  with  beauty  let  us  trim, 

As  Nature  trims  with  flowers  the  sod  ; 

Giving  the  glory  all  to  Him, — 

Our  Friend,  our  Father,  and  our  God. 


HYMNS. 


THE  HEAVEN  THAT'S  HERE. 

MY  God,  I  feel  Thy  wondrous  might 

In  Nature's  various  shows,  — 
The  whirlwind's  breath,  —  the  tender  light 

Of  the  rejoicing  rose. 

For  doth  not  that  same  power  enfol 

Whatever  things  are  new, 
Which  shone  about  the  saints  of  old 

And  struck  the  seas  in  two  ? 

Ashamed,  I  veil  my  fearful  eyes 
From  this,  Thy  earthly  reign  ; 

What  shall  I  do  when  I  arise 
From  death,  but  die  again  ! 

What  shall  I  do  but  prostrate  fall 

Before  the  splendor  there, 
That  here,  so  dazzles  me  through  all 

The  dusty  robes  I  wear. 

Life's  outward  and  material  laws,  — 
Love,  sunshine,  all  things  bright, — 

Are  curtains  which  Thy  mercy  draws 
To  shield  us  from  that  light. 


294  HYMNS. 

I  falter  when  I  try  to  seek 

The  world  which  these  conceal ; 

I  stammer  when   I  fain  would  speak 
The  reverence  that  I  feel. 

I  dare  not  pray  to  Thee  to  give 
That  heaven  which  shall  appear  ; 

My  cry  is,  Help  me,  Thou,  to  live 
Within  the  heaven  that  's  here. 


HYMNS. 


THE   STREAM  OF   LIFE. 

THE  stream  of  life  is  going  dry  ; 

Thank  God,  that  more  and  more 
I  see  the  golden  sands,  which  I 

Could  never  see  before. 

The  banks  are  dark  with  graves  of  friends ; 

Thank  God,  for  faith  sublime 
In  the  eternity  that  sends 

Its  shadows  into  time. 

The  flowers  are  gone  that  with  their  glow 

Of  sunshine  filled  the  grass  ; 
Thank  God,  they  were  but  dim  and  low 

Reflections  in  a  glass. 

The  autumn  winds  are  blowing  chill ; 

The  summer  warmth  is  done  ; 
Thank  God,  the  little  dew-drop  still 

Is  drawn  into  the  sun. 

Strange  stream,  to  be  exhaled  so  fast 

In  cloudy  cares  and  tears  ; 
Thank  God,  that  it  should  shine  at  last 

Along  the  immortal  years. 


HYMXS. 


DEAD   AND  ALIVE. 

TILL  I  learned  to  love  Thy  name, 

Lord,  Thy  grace  denying, 
I  was  lost  in  sin  and  shame, 
*  tying*  dying! 


Nothing  could  the  world  impart  ; 

Darkness  held  no  morrow  ; 
In  my  soul  and  in  my  heart 

Sorrow,  sorrow,  sorrow  ! 

All  the  blossoms  came  to  blight  : 

O  * 

Noon  was  dull  and  dreary  ; 
Night  and  day,  and  day  and  night, 
Weary,  weary,  weary  ! 

When  I  learned  to  love  Thy  name, 
Peace  beyond  all  measure 

Came,  and  in  the  stead  of  shame, 
Pleasure,  pleasure,  pleasure  I 


HYMNS. 

Winds  may  beat,  and  storms  may  fall, 
Thou,  the  meek  and  lowly, 

Reignest,  and  I  sing  through  all, — 
Holy,  holy,  holy ! 

Life  may  henceforth  never  be 

Like  a  dismal  story, 
For  beyond  its  bound  I  see 

Glory,  glory,  glory  ! 


38 


297 


298  HYMNS. 


INVOCATION. 

COME  down  to  us,  help  and  heal  us, 
Thou  that  once  life's  pathway  trod, 

Knowing  all  its  gloom  and  glory,  — 
Son  of  man,  and  Son  of  God. 

Come  down  to  us,  help  and  heal  us, 
When  our  hopes  before  us  flee  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a  man  of  sorrows, 
Tried  and  tempted,  even  as  we. 

By  the  weakness  of  our  nature, 
By  the  burdens  of  our  care, 

Steady  up  our  fainting  courage,  — 
Save,  O  save  us  from  despair ! 

By  the  still  and  strong  temptation 
Of  consenting  hearts  within  ; 

O  * 

By  the  power  of  outward  evil, 
Save,  O  save  us  from  our  sin  ! 

By  the  infirm  and  bowed  together,  — 
By  the  demons  far  and  near,  — 

By  all  sick  and  sad  possessions, 
Save,  O  save  us  from  our  fear  ! 


HYMNS. 

From  the  dirn  and  dreary  doubting 
That  with  faith  a  warfare  make, 

Save  us,  through  Thy  sweet  compassion, 
Save  us,  for  Thy  own  name's  sake. 

And  when  all  of  life  is  finished 
To  the  last  low  fainting  breath, 

Meet  us  in  the  awful  shadows, 
And  deliver  us  from  death. 


299 


300  HYMNS. 


LIFE   OF   LIFE. 

To  Him  who  is  the  Life  of  life, 
My  soul  its  vows  would  pay ; 

He  leads  the  flowery  seasons  on, 
And  gives  the  storm  its  way. 

The  winds  run  backward  to  their  caves 

At  His  divine  command,  — 
And  the  great  deep   He  folds  within 

The  hollow  of  His  hand. 

He  clothes  the  grass,  He  makes  the  rose 

To  wear  her  good  attire  ; 
The  moon  He  gives  her  patient  grace, 

And  all  the  stars  their  fire. 

He  hears  the  hungry  raven's  cry, 
And  sends  her  young  their  food, 

And  through  our  evil  intimates 
His  purposes  of  good. 


HYMNS. 

He  stretches  out  the  north,  He  binds 

The  tempest  in  His  care  ; 
The  mountains  cannot  strike  their  roots 

So  deep  He  is  not  there. 

Hid  in  the  garment  of  His  works, 

We  feel  His  presence  still 
With  us,  and  through  us  fashioning 

The  mystery  of  His  will. 


301 


302  HYMNS. 


MERCIES. 

LEST  the  great  glory  from  on  high 
Should  make  our  senses  swim, 

Our  blessed  Lord  hath  spread  the  sky 
Between  ourselves  and  Him. 

He  made  the  Sabbath  shine  before 
The  work-days  and  the  care, 

And  set  about  its  golden  door 
The  messengers  of  prayer. 

Across  our  earthly  pleasures  fled 
He  sends  His  heavenly  light, 

Like  morning  streaming  broad  and  red 
Adown  the  skirts  of  night. 

He  nearest  comes  when  most  His  face 
Is  wrapt  in  clouds  of  gloom  ; 

The  firmest  pillars  of  His  grace 
Are  planted  in  the  tomb. 

Oh  shall  we  not  the  power  of  sin 

And  vanity  withstand, 
When  thus  our  Father  holds  us  in 

The  hollow  of  His  hand? 


HYMNS.  303 


PLEASURE  AND  PAIN. 

PLEASURE  and  pain  walk  hand  in  hand, 

Each  is  the  other's  poise ; 
The  borders  of  the  silent  land 

Are  full  of  troubled  noise. 

While  harvests  yellow  as  the  day 

In  plenteous  billows  roll, 
Men  go  about  in  blank  dismay, 

Hungry  of  heart  and  soul. 

Like  chance-sown  weeds  they  grow,  and  drift 

On  to  the  drowning  main  j 
Oh,  for  a  lever  that  would  lift 

Thought  to  a  higher  plane  ! 

Sin  is  destructive :  he  is  dead 

Whose  soul  is  lost  to  truth ; 
While  virtue  makes  the  hoary  head 

Bright  with  eternal  youth. 

There  is  a  courage  that  partakes 

Of  cowardice  ;    a  high 
And  honest-hearted  fear  that  makes 

The  man  afraid  to  lie. 


304  HYMNS. 

When  no  low  thoughts  of  self  intrude, 

Angels  adjust  our  rights  ; 
And  love  that  seeks  its  selfish  good 

Dies  in  its  own   delights. 

How  much  we  take,  —  how  little  give,  — 

Yet  every  life  is  meant 
To  help  all  lives ;  each  man  should  live 

For  all  men's  betterment. 


HYMNS.  805 


MYSTERIES. 

CLOUDS,   with  a  little  light,  between  ; 

Pain,  passion,  fear,  and  doubt,  — 
What  voice  shall  tell  me  what  they  mean  ? 

I  cannot  find  them  out ! 

Hopeless  my  task  is,  to  begin, 

Who  fail  with  all  my  power, 
To  read  the  crimson  lettering  in 

The  modest  meadow  flower. 

Death,  with  shut  eyes  and  icy  cheek, 

Bearing  that  bitter  cup  ; 
Oh,  who  is  wise  enough  to  speak, 

And  break  its  silence  up  ! 

Or  read  the  evil  writino-  on 

c5 

The  wall  of  good,  for,  oh, 
The  more  my  reason  shines  upon 
Its  lines,  the  less  I  know :  • 

Or  show  how  dust  becomes  a  rose, 

And  what  it  is  above 
All  mysteries  that  doth  compose 

Discordance  into  Love. 
39 


306  HYMNS. 

I  only  know  that  Wisdom  planned, 
And  that  it  is  my  part 

To  trust,  who  cannot  understand 
The  beating  of  my  heart. 


HYMNS.  307 


LYRIC. 

THOU  givest,  Lord,  to  Nature  law, 

And  she  in  turn  doth  give 
Her  poorest  flower  a  right  to  draw 

Whate'er  she  needs  to  live. 

The  dews  upon  her  forehead  fall, 

The  sunbeams  round  her  lean, 
And  dress  her  humhle  form  with  all 

The  glory  of  a  queen. 

In  thickets  wild,  in  woodland  bowers, 

By  waysides,  everywhere, 
The  plainest  flower  of  all  the  flowers 

Is  shining  with   Thy  care. 

And  shall  I,  through  my  fear  and  doubt, 

Be  less  than  one  oF  these, 
And  come  from  seeking  Thee  without 

Thy  blessed  influences  ? 

Thou  who  hast  crowned  my  life  with  powers 

So  large,  —  so  high  above 
The  fairest  flower  of  all  the  flowers,  — 

Forbid  it  by  Thy  love. 


HYMNS. 


TRUST. 

AWAY  'with  all  life's  memories, 

Away  with  hopes,  away ! 
Lord,  take  me  up  into  Thy  love, 

And  keep  me  there  to-day. 

I  cannot  trust  to  mortal  eyes 

My  weakness  and  my  sin  ; 
Temptations  He  alone  can  judge, 

Who  knows  what  they  have  been. 

But  I  can  trust  Him  who  provides 
The  thirsty  ground  with  dew, 

And  round  the  wounded  beetle  builds 
His  grassy  house  anew. 

For  the  same  hand  that  smites  with  pain, 

And  sends  the  wintry  snows, 
Doth  mould  the  frozen  clod  again 

Into  the  summer  rose. 

My  soul  is  melted  by  that  love, 

So  tender  and  so  true ; 
I  can  but  cry,  My  Lord  and  God, 

What  wilt  Thou  have  me  do  ? 


HYMNS. 

My  blessings  all  come  back  to  me, 
And  round  about  me  stand  ;  ' 

Help  me  to  climb  their  dizzy  stairs 
Until  I  touch  Thy  hand. 


309 


310  HYMNS. 


ALL  IN  ALL. 

AWEARY,  wounded  unto  death, — 

Unfavored  of  men's  eyes, 
I  have  a  house  not  made  with  hands, 

Eternal,  in  the  skies. 

A  house  where  but  the  steps  of  faith 
Through  the  white  light  have  trod, 

Steadfast  among  the  mansions  of 
The  City  of  our  God. 

There  never  shall  the  sun  go  down 

From  the  lamenting  day  ; 
There  storms  shall  never  rise  to  beat 

The  light  of  love  away. 

There  living  streams  through  deathless  flowers 

Are  flowing  free  and  wide  ; 
There  souls  that  thirsted  here  below 

Drink,  and  are  satisfied. 

I  know  my  longing  shall  be  filled 

When  this  weak,  wasting  clay 
Is  folded  like  a  garment  from 

My  soul,  and  laid  away. 


HYMNS.  311 

I  know  it  by  th'  immortal  hopes 

That  wrestle  down  my  fear,  — 
By  all  the  awful  mysteries 

That  hide  heaven  from  us  here. 

Oh,  what  a  blissful  heritage 

On  such  as  I  to  fall ; 
Possessed  of  Thee,  my  Lord  and  God, 

I  am  possessed  of  all. 


812 


THE  PURE  IN  HEART. 

"Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God." 

I  ASKED  the  angels  in  my  prayer, 
With  bitter  tears  and  pains, 

To  show  mine  eyes  the  kingdom  where 
The  Lord  of  glory  reigns. 

I  said,  My  way  with  doubt  is  dim, 
My  heart  is  sick  with  fear ; 

Oh  come,  and  help  me  build  to  Him 
A  tabernacle  here  ! 

The  storms  of  sorrow  wildly  beat, 
The  clouds  with  death  are  chill ; 

I  long  to  hear  His  voice  so  sweet, 
Who  whispered,  "  Peace  ;  be  still !  " 

The  angels  said,  God  giveth  you 
His  love,  —  what  more  is  ours  ? 

And  even  as  the  gentle  dew 
Descends  upon  the  flowers, 


HYMNS.  813 

His  grace  descends  ;  and,  as  of  old, 

He  walks  with  man  apart, 
Keeping  the  promise,  as  foretold, 

With  all  the  pure  in  heart. 

Thou  needst  not  ask  the  angels  where 

His  habitations  be  ; 
Keep  thou  thy  spirit  clean  and  fair, 

And  He  shall  dwell  with  thee. 


40 


314  HYMNS. 


UNSATISFIED. 

COME  out  from  heaven,  O  Lord,  and  be  my  guide, 

Come,  I  implore  ; 
To  my  dark  questionings  unsatisfied, 

Leave  me  no  more,  — 

No  more,  O  Lord,  no  more ! 

Forgetting  how  my  nights  and  how  my  days 

Run  sweetly  by,  — 
Forgetting  that  Thy  ways  above  our  ways 

Are  all  so  high,  — 

I  cry,  and  ever  cry  — 

Since  that  Thou  taavest  not  the  wildest  glen, 

For  flowers  to  wait, 
How  leavest  Thou  tlie  hearts  of  living  men 

So  desolate,  — 

So  darkly  desolate? 

Thou  keepest  safe  beneath  the  wintry  snow 

The  little  seed, 
And  leavest  under  all  its  weights  of  woe, 

The  heart  to  bleed, 

And  vainly,  vainly  plead. 


HYMNS.  815 

In  the  dry  root  Thou  stirrest  up  the  sap; 

At  Thy  commands 
Cometh  the  rain,  and  all  the  bushes  clap 

Their  rosy  hands : 

Man  only,  thirsting,  stands. 

Is  it  for  envy,  or  from  wrath  that  springs 

From  foolish  pride, 
Thou  leavest  him  to  his  dark  questionings 

Unsatisfied,  — 

Always  unsatisfied  ? 


316  HYMNS. 


MORE   LIFE. 

WHEN  spring-time  prospers  in  the  grass, 
And  fills  the  vales  with  tender  bloom, 

And  light  winds  whisper  as  they  pass 
Of  sunnier  days  to  come  ; 

In  spite  of  all  the  joy  she  brings 

To  flood  and  field,  to  hill  and  grove, 

This  is  the  song  my  spirit  sings,  — 
More  light,  more  life,  more  love  I 

And  when,  her  time  fulfilled,  she  goes 
So  gently  from  her  vernal  place, 

And  all  the  outstretched  landscape  glows 
With  sober  summer  grace ; 

When  on  the  stalk  the  ear  is  set; 

With  all  the  harvest  promise  bright, 
My  spirit  sings  the  old  song  yet, — 

More  love,  more  life,  more  light ! 


HYMNS.  817 

When  stubble  takes  the  place  of  grain, 
And  shrunken  streams  steal  slow  along, 

And  all  the  faded  woods  complain 
Like  one  who  suffers  wrong; 

When  fires  are  lit,  and  everywhere 
The  pleasures  of  the  household  rife, 

My  song  is  solemnized  to  prayer, — 
More  love,  more  light,  more  life ! 


818  HYMNS. 


LIGHT  AND   DARKNESS. 

DARKNESS,  blind  darkness  every  way, 

With  low  illuminings  of  light ; 
Hints,  intimations  of  the  day 

That  never  breaks  to  full,  clear  light. 

High  longing  for  a  larger  light 
Urges  us  onward  o'er  life's  hill ; 

Low  fear  of  darkness  and  of  night 
Presses  us  back  and  holds  us  still. 

So  while  to  Hope  we  give  one  hand, 
The  other  hand  to  Fear  we  lend ; 

And  thus  'twixt  high  and  low  we  stand, 
Waiting  and  wavering  to  the  end. 

Eager  for  some  ungotten  good, 

We  mind  the  false  and  miss  the  true ; 

Leaving  undone  the  things  we  would, 
We  do  the  things  we  would  not  do. 

For  ill  in  good  and  good  in  ill, 

The  verity,  the  thing  that  seems,  — 

They  run  into  each  other  still, 

Like  dreams  in  truth,  like  truth  in  dreams. 


HYMNS. 

Seeing  the  world  with  sin  imbued, 
We  trust  that  in  the  eternal  plan 

Some  little  drop  of  brightest  blood 

Runs  through  the  darkest  heart  of  roan. 

Living  afar  from  what  is  near, 

Uplooking  while  we  downward  tend ; 

In  light  and  shadow,  hope  and  fear, 
We  sin  and  suffer  to  the  end. 


319 


320  HYMNS. 


SUBSTANCE. 

EACH  fearful  storm  that  o'er  us  rolls. 

Each  path  of  peril  trod, 
Is  but  a  means  whereby  our  souls 

Acquaint  themselves  with  God. 

Our  want  and  weakness,  shame  and  sin, 

His  pitying  kindness  prove ; 
And  all  our  lives  are  folded  in 

The  mystery  of  His  love. 

The  grassy  land,  the  flowering  trees, 
The  waters,  wild  and  dim,  — 

These  are  the  cloud  of  witnesses 
That  testify  of  Him. 

His  sun  is  shining,  sure  and  fast, 
O'er  all  our  nights  of  dread  ; 

Our  darkness  by  His  light,  at  last 
Shall  be  interpreted. 


HYMNS.  32] 

No  promise  shall  He  fail  to  keep 

Until  we  see  His  face  ; 
E'en  death  is  but  a  tender  sleep 

In  the  eternal  race. 

Time's  empty  shadow  cheats  our  eyes, 

But  all  the  heavens  declare 
The  substance  of  the  things  we  prize 

Is  there,  and  only  there. 


41 


322  HYMA& 


LIFE'S  MYSTERY. 

LIFE'S  sadly  solemn  mystery 
Hangs  o'er  me  like  a  weight; 

The  glorious  longing  to  be  free, 
The  gloomy  bars  of  fate. 

Alternately  the  good  and  ill, 

The  light  and  dark,  are  strung ; 

Fountains  of  love  within  my  heart, 
And  hate  upon  my  tongue. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  unstable  ground, 
Above  my  head  the  skies; 

Immortal  longings  in  my  soul, 
And  death  before  my  eyes. 

No  purely  pure,  and  perfect  good, 
No  high,  unhindered  power; 

A  beauteous  promise  in  the  bud, 
And  mildew  on  the  flower. 


HYMNS. 

The  glad,  green  brightness  of  the  spring ; 

The  summer,  soft  and  warm ; 
The  faded  autumn's  fluttering  gold, 

The  whirlwind  and  the  storm. 

To  find  some  sure  interpreter 

My  spirit  vainly  tries  ; 
I  only  know  that  God  is  love, 

And  know  that  love  is  wise. 


32? 


324  HYMNS 


FOR   SELF-HELP. 

MASTER,  I  do  not  ask  that  Thou 

With  milk  and  wine  my  table  spread, 

So  much,  as  for  the  will  to  plough 

And  sow  my  fields,  and  earn  my  bread ; 

Lest  at  Thy  coming  I  be  found 

A  useless  cumberer  of  the  ground. 

I  do  not  ask  that  Thou  wilt  bless 
With  gifts  of  heavenly  sort  my  day, 

So  much,  as  that  my  hands  may  dress 
The  borders  of  my  lowly  way 

With  constant  deeds  of  good  and  right, 

Thereby  reflecting  heavenly  light. 

I  do  not  ask  that  Thou  shouldst  lift 
My  feet  to  mountain-heights  sublime, 

So  much,  as  for  the  heavenly  gift 

Of  strength,  with  which  myself  may  climb, 

Making  the  power  Thou  madest  mine 

For  using,  by  that  use,  divine. 


HYMNS. 

I  do  not  ask  that  there  may  flow 
Glory  about  me  from  the  skies  ; 

The  knowledge  that  doth  knowledge  know  ; 
The  wisdom  that  is  not  too  wise 

To  see  in  all  things  good  and  fair, 

Thy  love  attested,  is  my  prayer. 


325 


826  HYMNS. 


DYING   HYMN. 

EARTH,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills, 

Recedes,  and  fades  away  ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills  ; 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song  ; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 
The  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long 

Are  all  alive  with  light. 

The  while  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

My  faith  doth  so  abound, 
I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 

The  green  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives, 

Low  as  the  grave,  to  go ; 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives  : 

That  I  shall  live,  I  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see, 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King  ; 

O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory ! 
O  death,  where  is  thy  sting  ! 


HYMNS.  227 


EXTREMITIES. 

WHEN  the  mildew's  blight  we  see 
Over  all  the  harvest  spread, 

Humbly,  Lord,  we  cry  to  Thee, 
Give,   O  give  us,  daily  bread  ! 

But  the  full  and  plenteous  ears 

Many  a  time  we  reap  with  tears. 

When  the  whirlwind  rocks  the  land, 
When  the  gathering  clouds  alarm, 

Lord,  within  Thy  sheltering  hand, 
Hide,  O  hide  us  from  the  storm  ! 

So  with  trembling  souls  we  cry, 

Till  the  cloud  and  noise  pass  by. 

When  our  pleasures  fade  away, 
When  our  hopes  delusive  prove, 

Prostrate  at  Thy  feet  we  pray, 

Shield,  O  shield  us  with  Thy  love  ! 

But,  our  anxious  plea  allowed, 

We  grow  petulant  and  proud. 


328  HYMNS. 

When  life's  little  day  turns  dull, 
When  the  avenging  shades  begin, 

Save  us,  O  Most  Merciful, 

Save  us,  save  us  from  our  sin ! 

So,  the  last  dread  foe  being  near, 

We  entreat  Thee,  through  our  fear. 

Ere  the  dark  our  light  efface, 
Ere  our  pleasure  fleeth  far, 

Make  us  worthier  of  Thy  grace, 
Stubborn  rebels  that  \ve  are  ; 

While  our  good  days  round  us  shine, 

O  our  Father,  make  us  Thine. 


HYMNS.  32S 


HERE  AND  THERE. 

HERE  is  the  sorrow,  the  sighing, 
Here  are  the  cloud  and  the  night ; 

Here  is  the  sickness,  the  dying, 
There  are  the  life  and  the  light  I 

Here  is  the  fading,  the  wasting, 
The  foe  that  so  watchfully  waits  ; 

There  are  the  hills  everlasting, 
The  city  with  beautiful  gates. 

Here  are  the  locks  growing  hoary, 
The  glass  with  the  vanishing  sands  ; 

There  are  the  crown  and  the  glory, 

The  house  that  is  made  not  with  hands. 

Here  is  the  longing,  the  vision, 
The  hopes  that  so  swiftly  remove ; 

There  is  the  blessed  fruition, 

The  feast,  and  the  fulness  of  love. 

Here  are  the  heart-strings  a-tremble, 

O  " 

And  here  is  the  chastening  rod  ; 

O  * 

There  is  the  song  and  the  cymbal, 
And  there  is  our  Father  and  God. 
42 


830  HYMNS, 


THE   DAWN  OF   PEACE. 

AFTER  the  cloud  and  the  whirlwind, 
After  the  long,  dark  night, 

After  the  dull,  slow  marches, 
And  the  thick,  tumultuous  fight, 

Thank  God,  we  see  the  lifting 
Of  the  golden,  glorious  light ! 

After  the  sorrowful  partings, 

After  the  sickening  fear, 
And  after  the  bitter  sealing 

With  blood,  of  year  to  year, 
Thank  God,  the  light  is  breaking  ; 

Thank  God,  the  day  is  here  ! 

The  land  is  filled  with  mourning 
For  husbands  and  brothers  slain, 

But  a  hymn  of  glad  thanksgiving 
Rises  over  the  pain  ; 

Thank  God,  our  gallant  soldiers 
Have  not  gone  down  in  vain  ! 


HYMNS.  331 

The  cloud  is  spent ;  the  whirlwind 

That  vexed  the  night  is  past ; 
And  the  day  whose  blessed  dawning 

We  see,  shall  surely  last, 
Till  all  the  broken  fetters 

To  ploughshares  shall  be  cast  I 

When  over  the  field  of  battle 

The  grass  grows  green,  and  when 

The  Spirit  of  Peace  shall  have  planted 
Her  olives  once  again, 

Oh,  how  the  hosts  of  the  people 
Shall  cry,  Amen,  Amen  I 


332 


OCCASIONAL. 

OUR  mightiest  in  our  midst  is  slain ; 

The  mourners  weep  around, 
Broken  and  bowed  with  bitter  pain, 

And  bleeding  through  his  wound. 

Prostrate,  o'erwhelmed,  with  anguish  torn, 

We  cry,  great  God,  for  aid  ; 
Night  fell  upon  us,  even  at  mom, 

And  we  are  sore  afraid. 

Afraid  of  our  infirmities, 

In  this,  our  woful  woe,  — 
Afraid  to  breast  the  bloody  seas 

That  hard  against  us  flow. 

The  sword  we  sheathed,  our  enemy 
Has  bared,  and  struck  us  through  ; 

And  heart,  and  soul,  and  spirit  cry, 
What  wilt  Thou  have  us  do ! 


HYMNS. 

Be  with  our  country  in  this  grief 

That  lies  across  her  path, 
Lest  that  she  mourn  her  martyred  chief 

With  an  unrighteous  wrath. 

Give  her  that  steadfast  faith  and  trust 
That  look  through  all,  to  Thee; 

And  in  her  mercy  keep  her  just, 
And  through  her  justice,  free. 


333 


THE    EXD. 


A    onn  7  """"""""« 


